


Thrice Baked

by ApostateDreams



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Friendship, Love, Nudity, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, Smut, hipster vibes, no magic, the gangs all here more or less, work life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-18
Updated: 2016-05-27
Packaged: 2018-03-18 09:58:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 44,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3565457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ApostateDreams/pseuds/ApostateDreams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Solavellan love story in a modern AU. Generally real-world modern, but with the DA races and languages, and within an ambiguous world-setting. I'm AU-ing kind of hard.</p><p>Lucille "Lucy" Lavellan moved to a seaside town where she starts working at a cute bakery that is across the street from a library that oscillates between quiet study-hub and exciting party-hub. She makes new friends and develops feelings for a certain elf.</p><p>I'm going in cold. I have some ideas of where this will go, but it's likely going to be long and exploratory and very slice-o-life-ish.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. fresh ink

“Are you sure you’ll be alright on your own for fifteen minutes?”

 _No._ “Yes, of course.”

The manager, Leliana, gives a knowing half-smile, but quickly pushes through the shop door, bell tinkling in her wake. The moment she is out of sight, Lucille Lavellan drops her face upon her hands and grumbles into her palms, “I can do this, I can do this.”

She promptly straightens up and tugs the hem of her polo-shirt nervously. It is a work shirt, colour-blocked peach and red with white stripes on the collar and sleeves, complete with business name and logo on the back. The overall design is unexpectedly cute, but unfortunately the shirt is too loose in the torso and too tight in the hips for her comfort.

Lucille drifts her stare to the hemlock grandfather clock against the west wall of the shop. _Cool. Fourteen minutes left. Supposedly._ Not wanting to entertain her clock-watching-and-spacing-out habit, she busies herself wiping the counter down with a rag, beginning with the wooden half and working her way to the glass half. The glass half of the counter is entirely composed of glass panels and brass edging, allowing uninhibited view of the dozens of breads and pastries inside that are handmade by Leliana and her chef, _what was his name…?_

Finishing up the cleaning of the counter, Lucille allows herself another glance at the grandfather clock as she washes her hands. _Less than ten minutes left. I bet nobody will even come in before she gets back._

A heartbeat later the bell rings and the door swings open and a man walks in, an elf, Lucille realizes, perking up a bit and assuming a cheery demeanour. She has not seen many other elves in this town so far.

“Good morning, and welcome to Nightingale Bakery.”

He gives a cordial nod.

“How may I help you?”

“I shall have a croissant and… What types of tea do you have?”

“Yes sir, let’s see…” Lucille retrieves a flat wooden box filled with various individually wrapped teabags, thankful she even knew where it was.

The customer examines the selection as one might examine flavours of cough medicine, before choosing black tea.

“This one will suffice.”

“Okay, here’s your croissant,” she plops the roll on a small plate with a pair of tongs, “and I’ll heat water for your tea.”

She turns on the electric kettle and then punches the numbers and items into the clunky cash register as it heats. Upon pressing the ‘Charge’ button to complete the transaction, the register emits a familiar whirring sound, but fails to print a receipt.

“Oh. Out of paper.” Lucille says, doing her best to look unfazed.

“No matter. I do not need a receipt.”

“Alrighty then.” She retrieves a mug of freshly heated water and passes it over the counter to him. “Here you are, sir, and thank you very much.”

The Elven man gives an almost imperceptible bow— _so formal_ —and replies, “Thank you kindly,” before taking a seat at one of the three small tables in the bakery.

Lucille steals a few glances at the customer, whose profile faces her from his seated position, as she searches some cabinets and drawers for a fresh roll of receipt-paper. He is hunching over slightly, bald, perhaps shaved, head tilted downward to look fixedly at a small spiral-bound notebook he currently jots in. His eyebrows are low and sockets shadowed, making the sharp slants of his cheekbones appear more severe. As a matter of fact, everything about him seems sharp and severe; the angles of his face; the stark contrast of his black pea-coat and pale skin; the juts of his elbows, shoulders, and knees through his clothing; the tense way he flexes his long fingers…

Having found a roll of receipt-paper, she removes the plastic cover on the cash register to insert it. The setup is similar to other registers she has worked with in the past, if only a bit outdated. After winding the end of the rolled paper through the appropriate amount of nooks and crannies, she presses the ‘Receipt Feed’ button so the machine will pull it through. The register whirrs as the paper feeds through, and then keeps whirring, unceasing, even after Lucille stops holding the button down.

“Gah!” She gracelessly leans over the counter with a little hop, attempting to catch the loops of rapidly expelling paper. “Ohh no, no, no nono-” she sputters, realizing the button is jammed and that the paper incursion will not quit until she fixes it.

Mentally cursing her recent decision to cut her nails, Lucille hastily searches for something to unstick the button with. As she rifles through a drawer below the register, receipt-paper spilling about around her head, she catches her sole customer staring at her with an expression that might be sympathy, or contained amusement.

 _Oh my gosh. I’m such an incompetent dunce. Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, oh my fuck-_ She averts her eyes and continues to inwardly chastise herself as she focuses on using the tip of a dessert spoon she found to coax the ‘Receipt Feed’ button from its jammed position.

Chair legs slide along the tile floor and footsteps approach the counter. Lucille cannot bring herself to look up while she angles the dessert spoon around the button, register still vomiting paper as it hums. She silently determines that if she was granted a second do-over this year, then she would use it to not have messed with the register while Leliana was gone.

Although she avoids lifting her head in order to prevent death-by-embarrassment, she feels the Elven man’s presence before her.

“Would you-” He starts and is abruptly silenced when the spoon flings from Lucille’s grasp, effectively unjamming the register’s button and smacking him between the eyes.

She leaps back and clasps both hands over her mouth, brown eyes wide, mortified. The man on the opposite side of the counter also brings a hand to his face, pinching the bridge of his nose and scrunching his eyes shut.

“I- I’m so sorry! S-so sorry! Ir abelas, ir a- are you okay?” She stutters through her fingers, a fierce flush blazing across her olive-brown skin.

“Yes.” He inhales sharply through his nose, lowering his hand. “I am fine, really.”

“A-are you sure?” She shakily moves her hands from her face and leans forward slightly to inspect the red mark the spoon left at the top of his nose.

“Without a doubt.” His lips turn up in a closed-mouthed smile; it is placating though, and does not reach his eyes, which Lucille now realizes are wreathed with bruisey dark circles. The darkness, she presumes from lack of sleep, makes his grey-blue irises appear all the more pale and piercing.

 _Nobody should be allowed to look that good with dark circles_ , she finds herself thinking.

Then the awkwardness of her blatant staring catches up to her, and she breaks the silence between them by clearing her throat halfheartedly.

“I, ah, gotta…” She gestures lamely at the nest of receipt-paper. “Gotta clean up this mad mess I made.”

Instead of leaving her to experience death-by-embarrassment unwatched as she hoped, the sharp and severe elf stands there, as if staring her down while she attempts to fix her folly with trembling fingers is the most casual thing in the world. _This is it. This is how I go out. Embarrassed to death._

“I can aid you with that, if you would pardon the intrusion.” The customer offers as Lucille fumbles with freeing the paper.

Under different circumstances, she likely would refuse the help, but in the interest of restoring normalcy to the shop before Leliana’s return, the young elf takes a step back and replies, “Please, by all means.”

He works quickly, deft digits disentangling the curls of receipt-paper from the register’s mechanism without difficulty. _His hands are so…elegant_ , Lucille concludes. She studies the long, thin fingers as he tasks. There are a few scars dusting the knuckles of his otherwise unmarred hands, and he wears a dusky silver ring with a small, green stone set in the band upon one of his middle fingers.

“Years ago,” he begins, threading the end of the paper roll through the correct nooks and crannies, “I worked in an antique shop. It was a charming place, but the owner was a bit…capricious. One day the man insisted than this old grandfather clock we’d acquired had summoned _ghosts_ onto the premises. So he ordered me to install cameras in every corner of the shop with the obdurate intent of filming them.” He pauses and shakes his head, muttering, “Ridiculous.”

If not for the peculiarity of his story, Lucille might have lost herself in the distinct cadence of his voice. It is all tuneful vowels and enunciated consonants delivered with ease.

“Anyway,” he continues as he returns the plastic cover to the cash register, “that antique shop had the same model of register you have here.”

“Thank you so much for fixing that.” She says, tugging the hem of her polo-shirt. “I’m honestly very grateful. I mean, it’s my first day at this job, and the last thing I want is to start off causing everyone trouble.” She furrows her brow guiltily. “Although, I’ve already caused you trouble, and so early in the morning, I’m still sorry about the spoon.”

“It is alright. It was quite an amusing mistake, and you are entirely forgiven.” He smiles, again not reaching his eyes, but his voice seems earnest enough.

“So…did the cameras ever film anything interesting?”

“Actually-” The opening of the shop door and tinkling of its bell cuts him off.

“Lavellan, hey, I’m sorry for taking longer than I planned. I got caught up speaking with Cassandra at the hardware store.” Leliana slips behind the counter and places two white cardboard boxes down.

“Hello there.” The redhead genially greets the sharp and severe elf still standing by the counter. “Have you been helped?”

“Oh yes, your bright co-worker here provided excellent service.” In spite of what really happened whilst Leliana was gone, his response holds the utmost candour, and Lucille swears he winks at her before returning to his table.

“I bought two dozen lightbulbs, so they’ll last us a long time.” Leliana informs her and points at the boxes. “Will you do me a favour and replace the burnt-out ones in the basement? I’m certain The Iron Bull’s had his fill of baking bread in the dark.”

“Yes ma’am, on it.” Lucille replies, tucking the two boxes under one arm and taking a last look at the Elven man, who is currently grimacing in between sips of tea, before shouldering through a door on the north wall and taking a right down into the bakery’s basement.

Rounding the curved staircase, she spies the baker sliding a lengthy pizza-peel spatula from their stone oven’s semi-circular opening. It is indeed dark in the basement; only one of the four ceiling lights has not burnt-out. Cast in the orange glow of the hearth-like oven, the Qunari appears shuddersome; however, that impression is offset by the undersized chef-hat balanced between his great horns and the stained apron around his waist.

“Hey there, new recruit!” He booms, turning to her.

“Hello Mister Iron Bull, I’m here to change the lightbulbs.” The last word is punctuated with a jiggle of the boxes.

“Just Bull is fine, or _The_ Iron Bull if you wanna be formal. And what’s your name again? The boss kind of glossed over the introduction we had at six A.M.”

“Lavellan, but my friends usually call me Lucy.”

“Well we’re gonna be friends, so Lucy it is.”

Whilst in the basement the pair make smalltalk concerning how Lucille’s first workday progressed thus far (she omits the bit about screwing up the register); how Leliana and Bull work together as bakers (apparently Leliana mostly makes pastries and he mostly makes breads); and how short Lucille is, even for an elf (to Bull’s amusement she can barely reach the light fixtures, stepladder notwithstanding). When she goes back up to the ground floor, the Elven customer has left and Leliana is speaking with a human boy behind the counter.

The human boy shuffles restlessly from foot to foot as Leliana, whose back faces Lucille, talks to him in what sounds like an authoritative-manager voice. He also wears the assigned peach and red work-shirt, although he has layered a ribbed sweater underneath. A mop of pale blond hair obscures the boy’s eyes, but his lips twitch into a chary smile as the young elf steps closer.

Leliana whirls around, short, red tresses flouncing about her cheeks.

“Ah, Lavellan, I was speaking with Cole about your position.” She steps back to include her in the conversation. “Anyway, I wish to start you off learning the ropes of our delivery service. It’s quite simple: customers call us to order whatever baked goods they want, and we take it to their location via bicycle. The hardware store down the street sells bike-baskets if you don’t have one already. Now, I know you’ve only just moved here, so you’ll accompany Cole until you are well versed with the town’s layout. Sound good?”

_______

The sun has passed its noontime peak but still beats warmly down upon the land, a warmth that is tempered by the balmy, saline breeze blowing in from the ocean. Lucille Lavellan inhales deeply, appreciating the way the seabreeze commingles with the aroma of baked goods rising from her bike-basket. Of all the places sudden fugue could have brought her, she is thankful to have ended up in the coastal town of Volvyn.

“Here is our destination!” Cole calls from in front of her, extending his arm in the direction of an apartment building on the right.

Lucille leans against the side of the brick and shingle building with their bicycles whilst Cole parts with a loaf of anadama bread at the door. He returns appearing pleased, or at least as pleased as she can tell with most of his face hidden underneath the shadow of his unusual hat. She has never seen anything quite like it, with its wide leather brim and roughspun metal dome.

“They order the same bread every week.” Cole muses as they mount their bicycles. She cannot tell if he is talking to her or not. “The regular customers are relaxing because they’re predictable, but the random ones are intriguing… It’s like, why are you ordering two dozen dampfnudels and a loaf of rye at three in the afternoon?”

Lucille laughs softly as she pedals next to him, a question coming to mind.

“So, Cole.”

“Hm?”

“What’s the most bizarre delivery you’ve done?”

He considers for a moment and pedals slower over the cobblestone street. “Well last year this one guy called and ordered one of everything.”

She arches her eyebrows. “No joke?”

“Yeah, turns out he was throwing a house party.”

“Ah, makes sense.”

The two cyclists lapse into an undemanding silence that Cole casually breaks here and there in order to acquaint her with the names of important streets. The most notable streets in Volvyn are Main Street, which runs north-south, and Firelink Street, which runs east-west. After delivering the muffins in Lucille’s bike-basket, they return to Nightingale Bakery on Firelink with about an hour of her shift to spare.

Once back inside, Lucille removes her bike helmet and gratefully secures her long, black hair into a ponytail to relieve the heat radiating from her neck.

“Your helmet is so…white.” Comes Cole’s voice from behind her. She turns around and shoots him a quizzical look. “I can change that, if you are interested.”

Cole’s round, blue eyes and phlegmatic expression divulge no clear intent, but then she notices the thick, permanent marker he twiddles between his fingers. _Oh._

“Hell yeah.” She says, relinquishing the helmet. “Do your worst.”

Behind the counter, Lucille replaces Leliana at the cash register as Cole begins drawing on the helmet next to her.

After a few quiet moments he inquires, “What do you like?”

The sudden question catches Lucille flatfooted. “Uh, pardon?”

“I mean…” Cole’s eyes drift to the brassy chandelier hanging from the ceiling, and he licks his upper lip as he ponders. “Hobbies? A hobby?”

“Oh! I like electricity, I mean, electrical engineering specifically.”

“Is that so?” Leliana says from the shop front where she currently reorganizes the window-display. “Maybe you can fix the busted electrical outlet over in the corner there.” She nods vaguely in the direction of the south-east corner of the room.

“Sure I can bring my tools tomorrow and take a look at it.”

“Perfect!”

After finishing changing the window-display from summer-themed to autumn-themed decorations, Leliana retreats through the door on the north wall of the shop to visit the baking-basement, or perhaps to go to her home on the second floor of the bakery. Lucille helps the next few customers: a rosy-cheeked dwarf who orders a butter-roll and a pear, a fair human woman who orders two apple tarts and a cup of tea, and another human who orders three baguettes. All the while, Cole draws by her side, permanent marker squeaking over the plastic of her helmet as he hums a luxated tune to himself.

The young elf cannot resist allowing herself some surreptitious glances at her co-worker and helmet. She distinguishes sharp-cornered swaths of black ink across its surface, but is unable to assess the overall pattern without more obvious rubbernecking. She turns to the hemlock grandfather clock along the shop’s west wall, eyeing over the rosy gold weights and pendulum behind its bevelled glass door.

A small sting of embarrassment crinkles like tinfoil in Lucille’s chest as the memory of her blunder with the cash register comes rushing through her. _I can’t believe I hit someone in the face with a bloody spoon._ The crinkling within her ribcage becomes something warmer, however, as she considers the sharp and severe elf’s calm smiles and odd story. A story, she realizes, she is keen to know the ending of. That is not surprizing; she never could let a thread of curiosity go. She was ever the inquisitive child, and remains an inquisitive adult. During her school days she queried peer and elder alike until their ears rang. Fortunately she matured to possess tact enough not to blather every question that comes to mind.

The tolling of the grandfather clock shakes her from reverie.

“There’s your shift.” Says Cole. “But before you leave, do you have a favourite phrase? Or quote, if it’s short.”

She faces him and leans into the counter, tracing a thumb under her lips, considering. “Well I rather like _sapere aude_. It means _dare to know_ or _dare to be wise_ in one of the lost languages.”

“Dare to know…” He echoes. “I like that.”

With a final flourish of his marker, Cole finishes his work on Lucille’s helmet and hands it to her.

She rotates it gingerly, examining the newly marked surface with amazement. Upon one side is a measured, geometric pattern that resolves itself into branches of lightning-bolts which arc across the helmet’s crown. On the opposite side, written in bold and fluidic cursive is her phrase: _sapere aude_.

“Cole-!” She exclaims somewhat breathlessly. “This is a marvel. I love it.”

Her eyes flicker up to meet his in time to see the anticipation in the boy’s features change to pride.

“I’m so happy…that you’re happy!” Cole replies with a grin, his exuberance matching hers.

“I am, thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings! Thank you for reading the first chapter! Thank you so much! I've not written a legitimate story in years, and I am interested in feedback and advice if you wish to offer it.
> 
> It is interesting to write Cole as a normo human instead of a spirit. I hope I did some justice with his personality and whatnot. I kept his hat because it's cool as fuck and it's in the story for better or for worse, fashion faux pas be damned.
> 
> Oh and that elf is Solas, we just dunno his name yet and I think it's obvi, but yeah.


	2. 90s tech

During the morning, as golden rays of sun barely break through the pink haze of the horizon, Lucille Lavellan chooses a circuitous route to work. The breeze that tousles her overgrown fringe of hair as she hems around houses on a bicycle ebbs the fog of sleep from her head. Sleepiness is entirely forgotten when she crests the precipice of the fault-plane that the town of Volvyn rests upon. The view of the ocean from the cliff’s edge steals the breath from her lungs. In the transient, early light the ocean appears as mercury, silvery and faerylike, and the beach dozens of meters below glitters as though its pale sands are interspersed with mica.

_I’ve never even been swimming before, and now…it’s just right here._

Riding off to work, Lucille makes a mental note to visit the beach before the cold seasons take hold. She lacks the ability to swim, but the tide-pools bestrewn within the rocky areas of the shore are appealing enough.

The morning rush for breakfast brings numerous customers to Nightingale Bakery. Most of them are human. Lucille quickly realized that the town is primarily human, with some dwarves and nearly no elves; she thinks Bull is the only Qunari. As someone who hails from an Elven settlement, the culture shock is bewildering. The alienation is made all the worse when customers near the back of the line whisper things like “rabbit” and “cute for an elf”. These errant voices are swiftly silenced, however, when Leliana levels them with a glare that could cut glass.

After the crowd finally abates, Lucille is thankful for the less socially involved task of cleaning off their three tables and two lengths of counter space. She just finishes the last of this cleaning, ending with the wooden counter, when the bell at the shop door signals someone’s arrival.

Lucille gawps, and blinks, then gawps some more. Although she is acclimating to seeing a far more varied and fashionable crowd since moving to a town (her previous area of residence is more of a dirty overalls and straw hats kind of place), the human sauntering across the tile floor gives her pause. The easy confidence and intensity he exudes is magnetic, and what is not conveyed via body language is picked up by clothing. He wears blood-red denim jeans that conform to svelte legs, and a button-front shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing intricate tattoos that loop and zigzag along his arms. Most of the tattoos are blackwork, with sporadic swipes of colour here and there. The overall look is enriched by the man’s glinting eyes and moustache that is curled just so.

Lucille counts herself lucky that he greets Leliana first; affording her a brief moment to assume what she hopes is a nonchalant visage. _He’s just too cool!_

“Morning, Leliana, my dear.” He leans into the counter by the register lackadaisically. “Or rather, _good_ morning, now that I’ve arrived.”

“Iron Bull is downstairs.” She responds flatly without glancing up from the teacups and mugs she situates on a wooden drying rack next to the sink.

The human man rumples his expression to one of mock dejection. “And how do you know I’m not here to visit you?”

“By _visit_ you mean cajoling me until you can slink past the ‘Employees Only’ sign, no?” Leliana speaks coolly, but her lips purse with a withheld smile.

“Oh you wish to be cajoled now, do you? When just a second ago you were so quick to brush me on by.”

She turns and faces the man full on, folding her arms and cocking a hip to the side. “Perhaps I’ll simply add an addendum to the sign: _Except Dorian_. Then you might save your lines for someone who’s more…receptive to them.”

“Never fear, I have plenty of lines to go around. Though I do expect that addendum.” He quips, and then rounds on Lucille. “Who might this little pixie be?”

“The bakery’s new employee, Lavellan.”

“Hello,” Lucille offers a little bow, “it’s nice to meet you, uhm, _Dorian_ , was it?”

“Indeed, Dorian Pavus at your service.” He mirrors her bow with an added grin and flourish of the hand. “So do tell me, have you ever been to a Halloween party?”

She quirks her mouth from side to side thoughtfully, then answers, “I’m not sure I know what a _Halloween_ is.”

“You what?” Stupefaction laces his voice and he raises one dark eyebrow. “It’s a holiday, and a jolly good one at that. The historical significance is…interesting, but folks around here tend to use it as an excuse to get unapologetically drunk, or, if drinking isn’t to your taste, unapologetically stuffed with confections. Or _both_ if you’d like a rough night.”

“What is even more compelling than that are the ghost stories.” Leliana chimes in. “Tall tales that are best told after midnight ‘round a bonfire under the moon, of course.”

“Wow!” Lucille exclaims with twinkling eyes. To her own unspoken embarrassment, she even balls her hands up into excited, little fists momentarily before regaining composure. _What am I now? A child?_ “So what’s the history behind Halloween?”

Fortunately neither Dorian nor Leliana insist upon poking fun at her youthful enthusiasm, instead they launch right into explaining the odd holiday’s fragmented history. In actuality it is primarily Leliana providing the account, whilst Dorian interjects with witty and jesting remarks here and there. Apparently, Halloween, or _All Hallows’ Eve_ as it is sometimes called, was a haunted night during which the souls of the dead bridged into the world of the living. Or it was a night when the dead were traditionally summoned using occult rituals. Whatever the case, the living could choose to safely interact with these phantoms, but if, and only if, they assumed the guise of one to blend in, lest they risk having their own souls snatched from their bodies. The poor individuals who did not wish to gallivant the night away in costume with displaced souls were left to ward off true spirits with lanterns carved from pumpkin or rutabaga, and to appease the imposters with some sort of offering, usually food. This chaos lasted until the sun rose, heralding the dawn of a new month.

Nowadays Halloween traditions have diminished to the occasional costume party, the cooking and eating of local holiday foods, and the sharing of spooky stories, with many regions not observing the holiday at all. All in all, Lucille cannot deny the increasing thrill she feels at the idea of dressing in costume for a night and indulging in the festivities of old legends.

“That actually sounds vaguely similar to the _Autumn Harvest Festival_ back in my home province.” Lucille considers after the explanation is finished; now resting her elbows on the counter and balancing her chin on the backs of her hands. “It is a time of feasting and merriment, naturally. We also light special lanterns like your Halloween, but ours are to deter mischievous fey from coming out of the wilds and stealing the harvest. My mother…” She intakes a breath and exhales it as a spiritless laugh. “My mother used to make me light the lanterns outside our house every year, even long after I’d stopped believing in the fey.”

“As an elf, aren’t you technically some sort of fey?”

Leliana pins him with a stare that seems to silently say, _Really Dorian?_

“Oh _absolutely_ , so it’s best to be on your guard. I may suddenly sprout opalescent wings and begin granting backhanded wishes for unsuspecting _shem_.” The young elf cracks a grin and makes a wiggly-fingered gesture to emphasize the sarcasm of her tone.

“You might work that lovely concept into a delightful Halloween costume, which reminds me…” He takes a half-step back and begins digging through the messenger-bag slung over his shoulder. “Krem and Sera made flyers for the party, and I’m wondering, Leliana, if I may post one here.”

“Always, the door is all yours.”

Whilst Dorian tapes a flyer to the glass of the bakery’s front door, Cole arrives to work, or at least attempts to. Dorian has a fair amount of fun playfully holding the door closed, and then barring the entryway with outstretched arms.

“Password please!” He requests in an obnoxiously haughty tone, with his arms and legs spread like a jack to each of the four corners of the doorframe. Cole’s hat hides his eyes, but Lucille spots his mouth twitch with vexation, or perhaps even a restrained laugh. _Maybe I’m projecting because_ I’m _definitely restraining a laugh right now._

“Oh, wait! Scratch that!” Dorian rethinks his gimmick. “Better yet, best me in a game of riddles, and I shall grant you entry.”

“Okay.” The blond-haired boy assents without any hesitation, expression impassive. “I’ll start.” He inhales a slow breath, allowing for a pregnant pause. “I’ll make you laugh, make you cry, make you beg. I’ll cause your breath to sputter and muscles to spasm, your limbs to flail and your words to falter. When I am done you might even need to change your pants. What am I?”

Although Lucille only sees Dorian’s back from where she stands behind the counter, a stretch of silence indicates some level of surprise with Cole’s riddle on his part. In his defence, she feels rather surprised by it as well, and puzzles for an answer.

Finally he speaks. “Why, Cole, I didn’t know you were into that sort of thing.”

“That’s not an answer.”

Dorian clucks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, and then mutters something under his breath. Judging by her expression, his guess was lost on Leliana’s ears, but Lucille heard it with her keener ones, and clamps a hand over her mouth to muffle a giggle.

“That answer is incorrect.” Cole very nearly sounds smug.

“Really now? Fine, what is it?” Dorian surrenders, though has yet to relax his limbs.

“This.” With roguish speed, Cole lurches forward and tickles the impromptu gatekeeper’s sides with both hands.

Predictably, he doubles over, choking on involuntary laughter and swatting the boy’s hands away. With the entryway newly unblocked, Cole lopes on by the threshold and past the incapacitated Dorian, calmly as ever. Lucille snorts around her hand, struggling to stifle the laughs bubbling up, as Leliana openly guffaws at her side.

“Well that’s something to keep on the backburner.” A voice, thick with amusement, rumbles to Lucille’s right. She turns and spots The Iron Bull placidly leaning against the northern doorframe with his arms comfortably crossed over his wide chest. A lopsided smile plays across his face as he looks at Dorian with his one seeing eye.

Like a cat who missed a leap, Dorian collects himself as though nothing occurred, snapping, “It is most certainly not,” at Bull as he does so.

“So Dorian,” says Leliana, “if you’re quite done distracting my employees…”

“Yes, yes, fine. To the baking-dungeon with me then.” With that, the pair descends into the basement, Bull tipping his chef-hat politely before shutting the door.

“Well,” Leliana addresses Lucille, “now that Cole is here, feel free to take your break.”

“Cool.” She moves for her backpack, stowed away under the counter, and then remembers. “Oh, hey, I’ll take a look at the busted electrical outlet before I break.”

Lucille goes through the rigamarole of testing the outlet’s _volts alternating current_ with the multimeter tool she brought, but where there should be 120 volts there is nothing. _Busted indeed._ The circuit breakers in the basement tell no tales either. Yet when she takes a screwdriver to the outlet cover and removes it, the problem becomes obvious. Typical even. The previous electrician used a flimsy back-wire connection; they simply stabbed the four copper wires into the ports on the backside of the unit and called it a job well done, resulting in a connection that loosened and failed over time. The plastic of the outlet cover is charred in some places as well. _Too many electrical issues are caused by ignorant and lazy engineering_ , echoes her mother’s voice in her head. Lucille decides to replace the unit. She informs Leliana of her findings, but her manager gets a glazed look halfway through the explanation before disclosing that her electrical knowledge begins and ends with electric guitars.

That nugget of information peaks Lucille’s interest. “Really?” She asks. “Are you in a band?”

“Well…sort of…” For the first time since they met during Lucille’s entry interview, Leliana falters and eschews eye contact. Lucille takes this as a cue to drop the subject.

On her way out, she takes a moment to examine the flyer Dorian secured to the shop door. She shifts the shoulder-straps of her canvas backpack and tugs at the hem of her polo-shirt as a ripple of chagrin tenses her spine and settles in her belly. Less than half of the orange text on the purple and black flyer is intelligible to her. _Fenedhis. I thought my reading improved more than this._ Between her partial illiteracy with both Common and Elvish—morso with Elvish—and her marked lack of experience with urban environments, she wonders how long she will last in Volvyn before the town gnashes her up in its teeth and spits her out in an alley…

“ _Come One Come All to a Spooky Celebration!_  
_We shall hail All Hallows’ Eve with proper revelry!_  
_Join us at Books of Boccob on the 31 st of October_  
_for a night of festive feasting, guising, and tall tales.”_

At first, Lucille nearly jumps out of her skin at the sound of a voice, jerking her head to the right with a suddenness worthy of whiplash. Cole looks away from the flyer and down at her, and then smiles in a knowing, but not pitying, way. She cannot choose whether to sock him one for startling her, or to hug him for the compassionate softness in his round, blue eyes.

“My gosh, Cole,” she finally sighs after her heartrate levels off, “you are silent as snowfall.”

“Sorry about that.” He murmurs, shuffling from foot to foot.

“No, no worries. It’s alright.” Lucille splays her fingers in the air as a good-humoured gesture. “There are far more benefits to stealth than loudness anyway.”

For a moment Cole seems ready to question or refute her statement, but then he just says, “Books of Boccob is the library there, across the street,” extending one pale arm in the direction of a shop-front with a wooden patio and an ultramarine awning with scalloped edges. “Dorian works there, along with Krem and Sera. It is a warm place, merry and mirthful. Also old, odd, with wood that whispers here and there… Whimsical really. Worth a visit.”

Following Cole’s recommendation, Lucille crosses Firelink Street to visit the library, dodging a few reckless bicycle riders on the way. _This building really does look old_ , she realizes while gawking up at it from the sidewalk. The façade of the two-storey structure is peculiar; much of it is composed of great, grey bricks that end in a halting and irregular fashion. Dark, russet wood planks carry on where the bricks leave off, resulting in a unique, hybrid of a structure, which is capped off with a roof of slate shingles. The bricked walls of the building are covered with trails of verdant ivy. It is as though someone built upon the remnants of an Old World ruin, adding walls where there were none and running with what existed there already.

She approaches the library's lacquered double-doors and temporarily is arrested at the sight of those as well. They each have matching pentagon-shaped stained-glass windows inset into the wood at what might be eye-level for most, but has Lucille on her tiptoes for a better view. The pentagonal windows are composed of a delightful myriad of multicoloured facets held together by copper foils. Melded as they are, the stained-glass facets form a luminous image: a hard, blue eye that is perched atop a thin pedestal like an owl. With one in each door, the overall effect fetches the sense that the doors themselves return her fascinated gaze.

“Ah, ahem…”

Lucille whirls around at the subtle sound of someone clearing their throat, cheeks warming with slight embarrassment over inconveniencing somebody with her inelegant lingering.

“S-sorry!” She squeaks, sidestepping out of the way to allow a young, auburn-haired dwarf to pass, before crossing the threshold herself.

The distinct aroma of ink and parchment greets her as she tentatively pads over to the service-counter on the right. A person—a library employee no doubt—lounges behind the counter in a swivel-chair, leaning back at a precarious angle with their socked, but oddly shoeless, feet propped up indolently. The employee currently devotes undivided attention to a handheld gaming-device clamped between their palms, thumbs furiously mashing the buttons. Lucille wants to make an inquiry about the library’s organization, but decides against interrupting the employee’s videogame. _I’ll just wander around._

After some exploring, Lucille manages to discover a bookshelf lined with volumes of children’s stories, which is a genre she actually has hope of maybe reading. _It’s probably most pertinent to practice my Common_ , she concludes, thumbing past a few tomes of Elvish and Tevene before finding a volume of various faerytales written in the Common tongue. She pulls this book from the shelf and tucks it under one arm. A glimpse of a gilded clock hung upon the wall reveals that a fair amount of her break remains before she must return to work. More exploring is in order.

Books of Boccob is not an especially large place, but the seemingly labyrinthine layout perplexes Lucille all the same. Subsequent to some amount of weaving between towering, walnut-wood bookcases, she discovers a stairwell along the west wall of the library that leads to the second floor. She takes the stairs, but not before eyeballing the row of boxy, beige computer monitors situated on some desks to her left. It is only the second time she ever saw one; the first was at Volvyn’s community center, where she bunked for a few days while she acquired a new residence and job.

The second storey is smaller than the first, and quite literally has an open-floor plan. Central to the room is a square-shaped area of the floor that is cut away and bordered with an ornate balustrade, affording an aerial view of most of the ground floor. Lucille casually strides along whilst craning her neck somewhat to get a look over the balcony, assuming that walking and gawking might be a nice change from all the standing and gawking she accomplished today. That is, until she stumbles over the tasselled edge of a rug, sending her faerytale book skittering across the floor.

A lithesome hand lifts the book off the floor before Lucille reaches it, more specifically, a hand with a dusky silver ring upon the middle finger. She sheepishly comes nearer to the sharp and severe elf holding her wayward tome.

“Hi…fancy seeing you here.” She says, suddenly unsure where to put her hands. _You sir, are the grim reaper of embarrassing deaths._

“Aneth ara, I fancy seeing you as well.” He glances down at the book of children’s stories, tilting it questioningly. “Doing some light reading I take it?”

Lucille balks; he almost sounds _sardonic_. “Something like that…” She answers ambiguously. “What are you doing?”

“I am making preparations for work related matters.” He gestures toward the cluttered desk behind him with a free hand.

“That’s a lot of…” She trails off, somewhat taken aback by the sheer amount of, not only books, but drawings, binders, writing utensils, and even a scroll, crowded atop the desk. “Wow, so, where do you work?”

“I will begin working at _Saint Priscilla’s School of Art_ , the college by the lighthouse, when classes resume in a couple of weeks.”

“Hey,” Lucille livens, “my landlord works there! She teaches sculpture.”

“Really now?”

“Yeah,” She flicks her eyes up and down his form, surveying the colourful flecks of paint adorning the collar and cuffs of his shirt. “Am I correct in assuming your shirt is indicative of your preferred art media?”

He briefly inspects each of his stained shirt sleeves, as though noticing them for the first time. “Ah, it seems my state of dress betrays how I spent my morning. To answer your question, yes, I am a painter.”

“Ooh- Is painting what you teach as well? How long have you practiced? What sort of subjects do you paint?” She speaks in time with her thoughts and neglects to stem the flow of inquiry as she usually does, worrying immediately after the words exit her mouth that the Elven man might take offense of her prying.

He chuckles, to Lucille’s surprise, a pleasant series of soft, baritone _ha’s_ passing his lips, the moment of mirth crinkling the corners of his eyes. “So curious,” he comments when his laughter lulls.

“Sorry for that,” Lucille mumbles at her sneakers. _Oh my gosh he’s laughing at what a nosy dunce I am_ , she thinks. Yet she cannot say she dislikes the sound of his chuckling. “I…sometimes my mind gets beyond me, and I ask too many questions. I hope I didn’t come off as meddlesome.”

“On the contrary, genuine curiosity is a disappointingly rare quality, and I recommend that you preserve it.” At this she snaps her gaze from the floor to his face. His demeanour is stoic, but she does not miss the ardent flash in his eyes, which are still wreathed with the darkness she noticed the day before. “A grave mistake is made in stifling it.”

 _He’s really serious about this then._ “That’s…actually refreshing to hear.” Lucille swipes a hand across her forehead, attempting to bridle bangs too long to behave and too short to tuck behind her ears. “Growing up my elders always hoped that this _quality_ of mine was a child’s tendency I’d eventually grow out of.”

“What an unfortunate oversight on their part, to always associate curiosity with childishness.”

Lucille catches the irony in this particular conversation coupled with the fact that the elf she converses with still holds the freaking children’s book she plans to read in his hand.

“I digress.” He continues. “Anyway, back to your questions. I shall teach painting classes at the college, and I have painted for…well, as long as I can recall. Sometimes I paint traditional subjects—still lives, landscapes, figures—but mostly I draw from my own imagination, and things I see in my dreams.”

A torrent of new questions churns in Lucille’s mind, but her break is not _that_ long, so she settles with a different thread of thought. “It must be thrilling to translate the imagination with paint. I attempted to paint using watercolours a few times when my best friend had a set, but I just made a mess.” She hides a giggle that escapes at the memory in the palm of her hand. “Painting is a skill I’d like to practice, but right now I must devote time and attention to reading.”

“Hence,” he holds up the volume of faerytales, “this?”

“Yeah, I’m kind of… My reading level is…” She hangs her head, pointedly wishing her backpack was some sort of turtle shell she could withdraw into. “I’m pretty much illiterate.”

Her Elven acquaintance did not openly criticize her for any shortcoming so far, but this… _this_ is something she expects most urban dwellers to ostracize her for. Back in her place of origin it is nothing noteworthy. Most children do not remain enrolled in educational centres beyond primary school, if they even enroll at all; they are simply too valuable for farming or other labours a family trades in. For Lucille that was electrical engineering. Her mother needed an assistant, and thus, Lucille knows power-systems and circuits, but never fully learned to read. In a town it is a mark of her rural roots, and a play into the stereotype of “uncivilized” elves. At least she need not worry about the elf part with him, but he has the earmarks of an intellectual, someone who likely looks upon country simpletons with scorn, or pity at best.

 _And for my third do-over of the year,_ she mentally announces, _I’ll not have bloody bothered going up here._ Anything is better than standing there, practically feeling the beams of his cold stare atop her head as she concentrates upon shame and her shoelaces.

She is about to artlessly excuse herself and allow the sharp and severe elf to keep the blasted book when he speaks. “I hope that you pardon my informality when I ask, would you like me to teach you? To read, I mean. I would be your tutor.”

The unanticipated question astonishes her. Indeed, Lucille feels thunderstruck, temporarily tingly from head to toe as the gravity of his generous offer reels her.

“I- Y-you-” She stammers, lifting her head. “ _Yes._ Yes, please, I would love that.”

The two elves spend some minutes arranging a recurring time and day for them to meet, and conclude that Books of Boccob is the most logical place to do so. Throughout this conversation, Lucille takes care to keep her sprightliness in check, which feels similar to trying to contain steam within a kettle ready to whistle. She is certain she thanked him and reminded him of his kindness at least a dozen times, but makes sure to do so again when they bid one another goodbye.

“I cannot thank you enough for your generosity.” She says, bowing before him deeply, causing her ponytail of thick, black hair to fall in front of her narrow shoulders.

“Clearly,” he responds, releasing another good-natured chuckle. “You are welcome, and I am sure, with that curious mind between your ears, that you will be a diligent student.”

When she rights herself he is holding the volume of faerytales out to her. She grasps the weighty, leather-bound book with both hands and motions to take it, but he continues to grip firmly, not yet relinquishing it to her.

“Before you leave, I would have your name.” His eyes flash as they did before, yet something fathomless is present in the grey-blue depths.

“Lucille Lavellan.” She answers, chin tilted up, a confidence in her returned gaze. “And yours?"

“Solas.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading the second chapter! It is...lengthy I think. Do yall like long chapters? I could make them shorter, or carry on with 3-4 thousand-ish words in each. Please feel welcome to comment and advise if you wish. I am happy for the feedback.


	3. instant film

Technicolor phosphenes spark behind Solas’ closed lids as he presses the heels of his palms into his eye sockets. He slouches in the library’s stiff desk chair, sliding down its angle until the back of the chair meets the nape of his neck, as though his insomnia and weeks of sick worry physically weigh upon him.

 _This distress is illogical,_ Solas insists to himself, _they informed you of their substantial recovery in their latest letter._

He drags a hand down his face, seeking composure. Dwelling upon this matter further simply will not do, as there are other affairs to mind. Josephine Montilyet, by her good graces, secured Solas a job at Saint Priscilla’s School of Art with but a few well-chosen words and friendly connections. She also helped him acquire a place to stay and had a hand in convincing him to settle in the first place. He is indeed indebted to his long-standing Antivan acquaintance. The least he can do now is get it together in time for classes in the coming weeks. Beginning his new teaching position as a sleep-deprived wreck will only reflect badly upon Josephine, and he is not about to allow that to occur due to a personal failing on his part.

Shifting in his seat, Solas glances through the gaps between the balcony balusters, beyond which he is able to see the first floor of Books of Boccob. He spies Lucille Lavellans’s petite form. Her back faces him from this angle, elastic-tied hair falling over her backpack in a disarray of shiny black tresses. She fidgets in front of the service counter and politely murmurs “excuse me” for the third time at a decidedly distracted employee.

Solas could tell from their first encounter in Nightingale Bakery that the young Elven woman was foreign, her accent a dead giveaway. He surmised that she was a native from the fiefdoms of the mid-western and south-western provinces. A most peculiar taste of information coupled with the fact that she cannot read. Illiteracy indicates a low station within the feudal system of those particular provinces, which raises the question: _how did she come to be here?_ Lords are loath to release their serfs with well-wishes. Albeit modern lords are more merciful than their Old World counterparts, mobility for elves of a fiefdom is difficult and generally discouraged by families who need their labour. Of course, it is not impossible, simply unusual.

A presumed history is not the only unusual thing about Lucille Lavellan; Solas has not encountered such an innocently curious soul since— _No._ He snaps the thread of thought. This is not like that. His new acquaintance is a casual protégé, a welcome diversion, someone he can stand speaking with and is willing to tutor, nothing more.

Solas sighs through his nose and turns back to the cluttered desk before him. He feels a headache coming on but continues to compile resources, construct a lesson plan, and compose a syllabus for his upcoming painting class. He never taught before, at least not in any accredited sense of the word, but his (admittedly cobbled-together) art portfolio combined with Josephine’s recommendation was enough for the schoolmaster, Madame Vivienne, to hire him. A truly unexpected outcome, considering the schoolmaster’s epithet amongst both students and staff translates to _Lady of Iron_. Josephine has her ways.

Like thorny vines creeping along mortar between bricks, troubling thoughts gradually crawl into Solas’ consciousness as he works into the afternoon. With no other reasonable recourse to lift his recurrent distress, he shoves his work aside and starts writing a letter.

_______

“ _Hello—_ ” Lucille draws out the last vowel, finally annoyed enough to abandon her usual etiquette.

“Welcome to Books of Boccob.” Comes an automatic response, then the employee seems to think better of it and pries their eyes from their game to actually look at Lucille, who pointedly places her faerytale book on the counter. “Oh. You’re here to check out, yeah? Haven’t seen you around before. Got a library card?”

“Err, no.”

“Want one?” The employee, a jaunty Elven woman with choppy white-blonde hair and milky-pale skin, leans forward and waggles her eyebrows suggestively. The gaming-device she still holds in one hand emits chirpy chip-music in the background.

“Sure. Th-that would be nice.” She replies, voice coming out higher pitched than she intended.

“Alright!” The blonde elf breezily spins away in her swivel-chair, giggling, and collides with another length of counter that has a computer on it. “Just tell me your name, current address, telephone number, _blah blah blah_ all that good stuff, an’ I’ll hook ya up.”

As Lucille rattles off information, the hyperactive employee types. She notices that her white-blonde hair is tipped with bumblebee-yellow, as though it was dyed and had since grown out. A few safety-pins of varying sizes stick through the lobes and cartilage of the employee’s pointed ears like earrings.

“Loo-seel Lah-vel-lahn.” She enounces after receiving her name. “That’s a real elfy name ya got there. Tongue twister, that one.”

“You may call me Lucy if you’d like.” Lucille offers.

“Much better.”

“And what’s your name?”

“Sera, the one and only.” The employee answers with a wink of one of her large grey eyes. “And now that I’ve got your deets…” She hops out of the swivel-chair (after one last good spin, of course) and produces an instant-camera from behind the counter. “Simply stand your pretty elfyness by that wall and make your expression of choice.”

Lucille walks to the designated spot, loosing her hair from its elastic and giving it a quick rake-through with her fingers as she goes.

“Tooth-smile. Classic.” Sera comments from behind the camera-eye. “I chose tongue-up-nostril for mine.”

Snickering at the comment, Lucille’s camera-smile morphs into a genuine one. “Did you really?” She asks as the instant-camera prints the photo.

“Helz yeah, I’ll show you after I scan yours.” The blonde elf skips off to the south side of the library, assumedly to _scan_. When she returns, she opens a drawer behind the counter and tosses Lucille’s square photo atop a myriad of others.

Lucille leans forward with her elbows atop the blue acrylic countertop, attempting to catch a better glimpse of the drawer full of photographs. “You keep everyone’s photos you take for library cards?”

“That’s right. In case you keep shite track of your card, we can print another with the same photo. Keeps us from having to waste so much coin on film.” Sera answers, then thoughtfully glances back at the drawer. “I can’t say it’s the most logical system, but, eh.” She shrugs and sits on the swivel-chair in front of the computer again. A smallish grey box next to the computer monitor begins to hum, and then produces a plastic rectangle from a slot, which she grabs and hands to Lucille. “Here’s your book-card, elfy.”

The new library card is coloured beige and ultramarine, and has the same pentagonal eye insignia present in the library’s double-doors. _I look…too young without makeup_ , Lucille thinks of her identification photo, but nods approvingly and pockets it, only to awkwardly dig it out again in order to check out the faerytale book. As she slips the thick, leather-bound volume into her backpack, Sera holds her own library card a few centimetres from Lucille’s face.

“That’s me. Said I’d show you, yeah?”

“You- Your tongue really is-! _Pffft_!” She breaks into buoyant laughter. “How do you even _do_ that?” She asks after catching her breath.

“Practice, I guess. A long tongue helps.”

Almost reflexively, Lucille attempts the ridiculous expression herself, but is unable to do much more than lick the skin above her upper lip.

“No, no, _no_. You’re not puttin’ pluck into it. You got to really want to taste your own snot. Like this.” Sera corrects, then successfully re-enacts the tongue-up-nostril expression with relative ease.

“Liff dis?”

“Mnn, gloth enuth.”

At that moment, the library’s double-doors swing open.

“I…see you’ve met Sera.” The two elves turn their heads to the sound of Dorian’s voice. Lucille swiftly unscrews her expression as he approaches the counter.

“You know Lucy?” Sera queries.

“Of course,” Dorian responds, “she’s Leliana’s new bread naïf at the bakery.”

“Yeah,” Lucille confirms, “I do deliveries, among other things.”

“Ohh that means you’re stuck working with Creepy. _Yuck_.” Sera scrunches her nose.

“Who’s Cr-”

“Come the fuck off it, Sera! Cole is nothing but kind and your willful ignorance is frustrating, to say the least.” Dorian rebukes, his expression broiling but drained, as though this is a periodic problem he handles.

Lucille shifts uneasily and worries the hem of her polo-shirt between her fingers as she stands privy to a brief argument between the other elf and human about her co-worker, curious, but trying her best not to listen too closely. It does not seem like a conversation intended for the ears of others.

“ _Vishante kaffas_!” Dorian at last exclaims with exasperation as he presses one of his hands to his forehead and rubs his temples. Sera responds by putting her hands on her hips and resolutely blowing a raspberry at him. “Very mature, Sera, now how about you do something useful and re-shelve book-returns instead of playing videogames?”

Sera groans but accedes, and ambles off into the labyrinth of bookcases with an armful of tomes.

“I am sorry you were present for that, Lucy. Sera is…fun to be around, but lacks savoir faire.”

“It’s quite alright.” Lucille assures, feigning a giggle for good measure. She resists the urge to ask questions, knowing she would feel guilty for gossiping about Cole when she is not exactly involved in the matter in the first place.

“Well, in any case, I have a savoury change of subject for you.” The human man hints as he sidles behind the acrylic counter where Sera was.

“And what’s that?”

“Bull and I are rallying our friends for a fine day at the beach in a couple weeks, and wonder if you would like to join us?” He leisurely lifts Sera’s chiptune-emitting game device off the counter as he speaks, turning it in his palms. “I’ve already extended the invitation to Cole and Leliana as well.”

“Certainly! That’s really rad. I’ve always wanted to go to a beach.” A gung-ho grin shows behind Lucille’s lips as she accepts.

“Excellent.” Dorian replies blithely. He flips a tiny switch at the side of Sera’s gaming device, causing its music to terminate.

After saying “see you later” to Dorian and stepping outside, Lucille hazards a glance at her wristwatch, already positive that whatever time she sees will hasten her steps. _Cutting it close. The second day on the job is as good a time as any to press Leliana’s limits I’m sure_ , she thinks dryly, then scampers a couple blocks up Firelink Street towards the hardware store. Recalling the name as _Havel’s Hardware_ , she scans the shop-fronts for a business beginning with the letter H. It is not overlong before she discovers just such a place on the same side of Firelink as Nightingale Bakery, forcing her to cross the street. The shop-front is modest and contrasts with the vastness of the interior. It is all high ceilings and wide aisles. Lucille energizes at the opportunity to search around for electrical equipment she could use for personal projects, but without any time to waste wandering, she beelines to the first employee-looking individual she spots.

“Hi,” she greets, panting from her sprint, “Do you work here?”

The human man turns around and sweeps his gaze clear over Lucille’s head before tilting his chin down to meet her face, which is likely at least twenty centimetres lower than he expected. She doubts she shall ever grow accustomed to the elf-human height discrepancy. Hell, there even exists a height disparity between her and most other elves.

“Oh. Yes. Hello.” The employee confirms in a halting manner. Lucille notices a single scar jutting from his upper lip, hardening his otherwise amiable visage. “How may I help you?”

“I’m looking for-” Lucille pauses to brush a bead of sweat from her temple with the back of her hand, slightly regretting letting her hair down, as it is prone to covering and warming her much like a blanket. A blessing during cold seasons, but a curse for the hot ones. “-electrical outlets.”

The employee regards her with an expression that is one part curious and two parts nervous. His honey-brown eyes quiver back and forth minutely, in the way eyes do when gazing watchfully into another pair. “Those are on aisle eight. Are you…alright?”

“Yeah. Totally. I ran here.”

“Oh, of course, you must be in a hurry then. Right this way.” He whirls around abruptly and strides off down an aisle, his gait lengthy enough that Lucille must jog a little to keep up. “Here we are.” With an open palm he makes a sweeping gesture over a section of the aisle dedicated to various electrical outlet units inside clamshell packaging.

“Thank you,” she says, browsing the selection for the type of outlet in Leliana’s bakery. She spots it, just shy of her limited reach, naturally. She springs to her tiptoes and outstretches an arm, the tips of her fingers brushing air a hairsbreadth away from the blasted thing. Biting her lower lip, she uselessly wills her vertebrae to extend. _I could try jumping…_ Lucille looks right, then left. _Oh._ She makes eye contact with the human employee who lingers a few meters away.

“Sorry, but could you…help?”

“Y-yes, certainly, sorry I wasn’t…helping you before. I was…” His cheeks flush and he trails off, clearly flustered. Lucille thinks she hears him muttering under his breath as he plucks the package containing the outlet off the wall and hands it to her.

“Thanks,”

“If there’s anything else you need, I am happy to be of service.” He offers.

“Nah, this is all I needed.” She declines, and then a wholly wicked idea comes to mind. “For now, that is.” A coquettish grin graces her lips and she threads her voice with as flirtatious a timbre as she can muster short of sounding overt in her efforts. “I absolutely wish to return sometime to entertain a more _personal_ hobby. Perhaps you’d be amenable to aiding me then?” She bats her big brown eyes up at him, feeling a bit ridiculous. The tiny act of knavery seems to have the sought effect though.

“Absolutely, that would be… I’m here a lot so… Well, I work here so of course I’m here a lot…” The employee’s flush deepens and he palms the back of his neck, ruffling his golden-blond hair as a chary smile breaks across his face. “You can talk to me anytime.”

“Why thank you, I dearly appreciate it.” Lucille replies through her grin, which she hopes has not turned too puckish.

On the walk down the street back to the bakery, Lucille’s thoughts abscind between _I should not have fake-flirted with that poor shemlen who blushes too readily_ , and _fake-flirting with that poor shemlen was hilarious who shall be my next victim?_ At least what she told him was not a lie. She does intend to visit Havel’s Hardware again in her off time to treat herself to some equipment she needs for a personal project. In addition to that, she suspects exploring the store may yield inspiration for a costume to wear at the upcoming Halloween party.

When she resumes her shift at the bakery, Cole is departing for a delivery, which she gladly accompanies him for. They adapt to a low-effort rhythm of cycling side by side over the grey cobblestone, with Cole continuing to coach her in the names of streets. Most of them are simply numbered, which makes things easier. However, Lucille’s attention is increasingly torn between her co-worker’s instruction and the leaden clouds lingering over the land’s horizon. When they reach their destination, Lucille opts to wait with their bicycles whilst Cole delivers one dozen fluffy choux pastries to a customer.

By now the storm clouds have whelmed most of the afternoon sky. She inhales the heady scent of impending rain. _It smells like home, but…_ Well, no, not really. The air that fills Lucille’s lungs lacks the familiar humidity of gentle hills and dewy meadows. The scent carries no promise of a warm cascade of droplets. Volvyn’s rain smells sharp, unfamiliar. It is a strange thing born of rocky bluffs and stinging seas.

“Ready to return?” Asks Cole, gripping his bike by the handlebar.

Lucille nods, a trivial tightness of the throat making her second-guess speaking.

Rather than sticking to streets, Cole skirts around buildings and through alleyways, presumably to avoid the forthcoming storm. Lucille pedals quickly but lags behind, her bicycle clicking beneath her, which is…odd.

“Hey, Cole, hold up a moment.” She dismounts at the mouth of an alley and crouches by her bike.

Examining the bike’s pedalling mechanism, Lucille diagnoses the problem. The bike’s roller chain dislodged from its proper place around the sprocket. She hurriedly attempts to force the chain back onto the sprocket’s teeth, all too aware of the fat raindrops beginning to fall around them. The bike chain’s oily lubricant causes her hand to slip, and she spits an Elven swear. It seems that despite Cole’s clever shortcuts, the rain will catch them anyway. All because of her.

As if to make a point of her incompetence, the rain’s magnitude increases exponentially. The harsh hiss of it upon developments is so unlike the whisper over the wilds she grew up with. In seconds she is soaked and chilled, but only worries for Cole who stands beside her. He would not be stuck here if she knew the town’s layout. He would not need to waste time helping her learn if she could read a map. It would not even matter if she could read or not if she were in her home province. She could still be in her home province if…

Lucille bites out another curse as her grip slips from the displaced roller chain again. This time a shock of pain shoots up her hand as the sprocket’s metal edge slices the pad of her finger. Reflexively recoiling, she flips her hand and inspects the injury. Blood mixes with rainwater mixes with filth from the bike parts. It looks worse than it is. Her hand trembles then blurs. She blinks torpidly, crushing her eyelids shut and swallowing. The trivial tightness of the throat is now a lump that refuses to go down. If not down, then perhaps up will bring relief. She tries coughing—once, twice, thrice…

_I can’t breathe._

_I’m going to die._

“Lavellan.”

_Please… Help…_

“ _Lavellan_.”

_I can’t breathe…_

“Lucy!”

Cole kneels upon one knee before her, his ashy hair clumped and stuck to his face by rain that still falls upon smooth cobbles and slate shingles. He is motionless as an old tree trunk, entirely heedless of the streamlets of water trailing down his arms and face, perceiving her with unblinking eyes wreathed in whitish lashes.

“Breathe with me. Inhale through your nose, and exhale through your mouth.”

Lucille observes Cole’s calm directives and drags shuddering breaths into her lungs. She is unsure how long they stay there, just breathing, but eventually her hammering heartrate abates and the world comes back into focus.

They are still in the alleyway, and although she has no memory of moving, she realizes that she sits under the small awning of someone’s back door, shielded from the storm. The two bicycles, his hat, and her helmet lay in a jumble on the ground behind Cole.

Lucille opens her mouth, closes it, reconsiders. What is there to say?

“Sorry for… I did not mean to…” She bows her head and grumbles into her knees. “I’ve troubled you.”

“It’s not trouble. I like to help.” He claims with such halcyon conviction it sounds like a fundamental truth of his person.

She shifts to rest her hands and chin atop her knees, meeting Cole’s uniquely spectral eyes again. “Have you ever felt…?” She begins, but seizing the proper words is like tracing the vision’s fleeting blind-spots after a camera flash. She falls silent.

“You came from a land of rolling hills and deciduous forests. Of farming and ferns. Fields of gold, lords of old, fey between the trees.” The human boy’s voice assumes a metered, monotone quality. Even with Elven ears Lucille barely hears him amidst the pitter-patter of raindrops as he continues.

“Arcs of static, thunder’s thrum, a lightning storm never scared you… Freeing fugue falters. _Can I survive here?_ ” Cole’s question—her question—hangs in the saturated air. Then he answers with an unwavering and compassionate gaze.

“We all come from one place, but I want you to know you can belong in many.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for sticking with this thing!
> 
> Writing this chapter was fun, probably because it is so varied. It’s nice to start bringing out more depth/detail of characters, especially in AU-land where anything goes. I struggled a bit with Cole’s dialogue though. Since he’s human here he cannot mind-read, but I imagine him still sharply intuitive and good at interpreting people.
> 
> I vaguely based Lucille’s panic attack at the end there on my own experience with panic attacks.
> 
> So, does anyone else like flirting with Cullen for kicks? I love how in DA:O you can make him run away from you freaking out in the mage beginning at the circle tower. Good times.
> 
> Btw, I have a Dragon Age/fanfic Tumblr now: apostatedreams.tumblr.com
> 
> Ask me questions, or just chat. Marvel at how tumblr-incompetent I am. I even have links to my other haunts in the About section.


	4. fireflies in a jar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elvish from: archiveofourown.org/users/FenxShiral
> 
> On dhea = Good morning
> 
> On enathe = Good job
> 
> Ir on esay = Very good job
> 
> (‘Enathe’ means 'beginning' or 'start'. ‘Esay’ means 'attempt', 'try', 'endeavour', 'test', or 'trial'. I didn’t find a word for 'job'. Probably didn’t look hard enough. I may change it later.)
> 
> Emma serannas = Thank you
> 
> Dirthas Elvhen? = Do you speak Elvish?
> 
> Dirthan = I speak (In this context means more Yes I speak it.)
> 
> Babae = Father

“ _Aaugh_! Gibberish, gibberish! All fuck-fekkin’ _gibberish_!” Lucille very nearly flings the dreaded book across the room, but restrains the immature impulse. Considering the small size of the single-room living space and her luck, it would likely bounce off the wall and come back to smack her in the head anyway.

Defeated for the time being, the young elf abandons the reading and drags her feet to the bathroom. She brushes her teeth, unbraids her thick rope of hair, and strips off her sleeping clothes for a shower. As the shower’s spray scatters and slips down her form, she steels herself for the day.

_You can belong._

Cole’s words tumble through her thoughts. She could _belong_ in Volvyn. Cole assumes so, and if she considers her experience objectively, nobody she interacted with in the town treated her cruelly so far. At least not anybody important. There was the occasional snide comment on the street and a few brows raised in response to her accent, but no more than that. The humans of her home province are markedly more overt in their disdain of elves than Volvyn’s humans, but she encountered them far less there than she does here.

Lucille turns off the flow of water and steps dripping from the shower.

“I ought to be more optimistic.” She tells her naked reflection as she towels her hair. “Fear is fine, but I must not despair.”

Unused to speaking aloud alone, her own voice rings remotely in her ears. However, in the absence of housemates, the habit of talking to herself consequently emerged. A living space does not feel _lived_ in without sound. She is seasoned to the crackle of fire in a hearth, the murmur of her second oldest brothers—the twins—whispering to each other, the judder of her mother’s sewing machine, the creaking of her father’s rocking chair. It is a blessing that the place she rents is close enough to the coast for her to pretend the roar of waves on shore is her oldest brother snoring in the night, lest she never fall asleep. How bizarre it is that only a few weeks ago she slept soundly in a bedroom with her three siblings.

“No. Ohh no.” Lucille warns. “Do not think of them.”

She draws in some deep whiffs of a small jar of coconut oil in her bathroom, attempting to ground herself in the sensory, before rubbing a moderate amount of it up the length of her hair.

It is too late, however. She dipped a foot into memories missed and fails to interrupt the flux of reminiscence that strobes through her mind. Stargazing on long nights; sneaking out with her brothers and sprinting shoeless through the family orchards; long days spent picking fruit for seasonal harvests; travelling via train with her mother to meet clients who required electrical expertise; listening for fey whispers amidst birdsong; wishing on dandelion puffs; home. Lucille tilts her head back until her nose points at the ceiling, for the moment concentrating on preventing the tears brimming in her eyes from escaping.

“I can do this. I can do today, and tomorrow, and the rest of the year.” The words taste contrived, but she does not permit herself to ponder them. Instead she gingerly disinfects her cut finger and wraps a fresh bandage around it. The act reminds her that she wants to thank Cole for helping. Perhaps append the appreciation she vocalized after the incident yesterday with a gift. _What might he like?_

Lucille leaves the bathroom and dresses in a graceless rush, trying to escape the molasses grips of nostalgia that continue to pull at the corners of her mind. She pops her raven-haired head through the collared neckline of a blouse and yanks on a pair of jeans as she stumbles over to the tiled corner of the room that is the kitchen. Some rifling through fridge and cabinets along with a modest amount of culinary artistry and a dash of disregard for flavour affords her a peanut-butter-and-cereal sandwich. The gratifying crunch of cereal cheers her— _the pleasure of simple things_ —and a little thrill flickers through her as she remembers that a sandwich is not the only thing to feel cheerful about. Today is the day she and Solas shall meet for her first lesson in reading.

“It’s not every day that a man submits his time to me. This should be…interesting.” Lucille muses while tying her shoes. Her eyes drift to the volume of faerytales she left upon the unmade bed. “Provided I don’t make a fool of myself.”

_______

The second storey of Books of Boccob lays entirely vacant, and is serene in its silence and stillness. Lucille slides her fingers along the lacquered handrail of the balustrade as she strides to the east end of the room and then seats herself at one of the desks, leaning leisurely in the cushioned wood chair. Gentle drifts of dust motes float in golden slants of sunlight streaming through a nearby window. The tiny pinpricks of light are mesmerizing in their waltz. She follows the dust motes’ languid paths with half-lidded eyes…

“ _On dhea_ , Lavellan.”

She awakens with a start to see Solas standing at the opposite side of the desk with dignified contrapposto. He wears a paint-stained button-front shirt similar to what he had on yesterday; amusedly she ponders how much of his clothing is marked in such a way.

“You arrive to the lesson early; that is a reliable practice. However,” he quirks one eyebrow ever so slightly, “I hope you are sufficiently rested.”

“ _On dhea_.” Lucille sits up straight and smartly clasps her hands together upon the desk in front of her. “I’m rested, I-” Her speech clips with a yawn, which does not help her case. “I’m used to waking up at the crack of dawn. This is nothing.”

Solas pulls over a chair and sits across from her, dropping the satchel slung over his shoulder to the floor. “Let us waste no time then.”

The first matter to address according to Solas is ascertaining Lucille’s current reading level. This is accomplished via a series of awkward questions regarding her (very brief) schooling history and also, much to her dismay, a demonstration of her paltry performance directly when he requests she read aloud to him from the book she checked out yesterday. It is all as awful as Lucille feared. She struggles to remind herself that _being terrible at something is the first stepping-stone of the path to mastery_ under his scrutiny.

After what feels like agonizing hours struggling to articulate a single paragraph, he halts her with a raised palm. “That is enough. You may stop.”

She sets the children’s book on the desk with a _thunk_ , as though it is a hot coal. “What’s the verdict?” _Not good I wager._

“At this early stage of your learning it is pertinent to improve your ability to differentiate and identify individual letters.” Solas pauses, and angles his body to the side to retrieve an item from his satchel. “A good way to do such is by dint of repetition and writing.” He places paper and a pencil upon the desk between them.

Lucille nods in affirmation, and then takes her lower lip in between her teeth and chews nervously as she tries to remember the last time she even held a writing utensil. Solas certainly makes it look easy. He wordlessly begins to sketch on a sheet of paper, creating a series of rows and columns with steady, sweeping gestures. At the top of each of these columns he delineates three things: a word, an image, and a letter. She shamelessly stares as he works his way across all twenty-six columns, amazed by the flawless representations in each. An anvil, a bicycle, a cat, a dog, an eel… The motions of his hand as he illustrates are riveting. Adroit little jerks and twists of his wrist, a rhythmic tensing and relaxing of his fingers. _It is such a treat_ , Lucille realizes, _to witness someone draw like this_. By the time Solas sketches a wolf in the twenty-third column, she is biting her lip for an entirely different reason.

“Here,” Solas finishes the final drawing and slides the paper across the desk. “The words in the first row I prepared are the names of the corresponding images in the second.” He points with the pencil’s eraser to indicate the first two rows on the page. “As you can see, the individual letters in the third row are the first letters of those words. Will you say each word and letter?”

“Yes, shouldn’t be difficult.”

With Solas’ illustrations as a convenient crutch— _handy guide_ —Lucille reads the alphabetical words and letters as though skipping through a bed of roses. When she is done her amber eyes turn up to meet his, and she cannot squelch the smug smile that lifts her cheeks. She recited each piece with nary a stutter.

“ _On enathe_. No mistakes. Now-” He leans to the side again to fish out another item from the satchel. “Would you read them again for me?”

Just as Lucille opens her mouth to begin at A, he stops her, reaching over the desk and placing a metal ruler atop the worksheet, neatly obscuring the entire row of illustrations and leaving her with only the text.

She falters and gives him an incredulous look. “I’m unsure if…”

“Ah but you have done so well so far. A challenge ought to be welcome.”

Dispassionate in both expression and tone, Lucille cannot tell if her tutor intends to come off as needling or reassuring. Regardless, she starts with a confidence of carriage, making sure not to mumble. _If I am to run aground, I will at least do so with assurance in the abilities I_ do _have._

The young elf discovers that this recitation also is like skipping through a bed of roses, and snagging her knickers upon the thorns. A few words and letters roll off of her tongue, but many of them stammer like pasty food clinging to her palate. Every syllable requires mental concentration; it is like speaking another language. By the skin of her teeth, she makes it all the way to Z though.

“ _Ir on esay_. Your willingness to not relent when challenges arise will propel your learning.”

Lucille eagerly soaks in his words of praise despite their aloof delivery. “ _Emma serannas_ ,” she expresses gratitude, smugness replaced with humble determination.

The corners of his mouth twitch slightly; a second of restrained expressiveness quickly vanishes. “There is yet work to do. If you will read them all once more, I shall aid you as you go along.”

Solas helps her with each word individually until her phonation is flawless, even without the illustrations visible. Lucille takes in the older elf’s vocal cadence, the specific way his tongue flips the letter R, the pellucid tonality he puts into certain vowels. It is a foil to her accent, which has clipped consonants and muddled rhythm. Residents of the fiefdom lands (ones who are not of lordly blood) have a habit of slurring words together, allowing the end of one to begin another. Some consonants are dropped for the sake of brevity it seems. Thus it is difficult to clearly form words whilst also concentrating upon deciphering written symbols still so foreign to her.

 _Common is so unwieldy. Everyone ought to just speak Elvish_ , she thinks sourly as Solas corrects her pronunciation of ‘Vegetables’.

Moments later she asks, “ _Dirthas Elvhen?_ ”

“ _Dirthan._ I am fluent, what of yourself?” He answers, twisting his pencil in a small plastic sharpener.

“ _Dirthan…_ pseudo-fluently. My father is fluent and he imparted much to me, but of course I can’t read it, and there’s always more to learn.” _But not from Babae now_ , she adds mentally. “Who taught you?”

He replies succinctly, “I grew up with the language,” and then offers the newly sharpened pencil to her. “Here, if you would please. I’d like you to write each of the letters, one score per column.”

“Certainly,” she consents, and after a beat, “hahren.”

“Da’len,” he quietly completes the gesture as she takes the offered pencil.

Lucille knows better than to fist the writing utensil as young children often do, but fumbles around with it nonetheless, unsure how to properly pinch the thing. She rolls it between her middle and index fingers, and then tilts her wrist awkwardly to press the tip to the paper, only to have it slide uselessly up between the poorly placed digits. _This cannot_ cannot _be happening. Fenedhis. Really?_ She considers the way in which she handles a screwdriver, or a pair of pliers, and speculates why in the world this should be so different.

She hazards a peek up at the Elven man across from her and recognizes traces of what must be mirth in his expression. It is not dissimilar to the one he wore when she was beset by receipt-paper during her first day at Nightingale Bakery. Eyebrows slightly raised, the barest hint of a smirk at the left corner of his mouth, chin balanced upon one of his fists.

With a single sinuous motion Solas stands and strides to her side of the desk.

“May I?” He inquires, a nonchalant slouch in his stance as he presses one hand on the back of her chair for balance whilst the other hovers questioningly next to her own.

“Sure,”

What follows is a sensation Lucille hardly anticipates: his hand upon hers, gently adjusting her hold over the pencil. The chill of his fingertips discords with the warmth of his palm, and she feels the light rasp of his nails as he repositions each of her fingers.

“Hold it like this.” His voice is a low rumble in their close proximity. The vibration of it so near to her ear causes heat to spike through her.

“Th-thank you,” she manages, positive that she is overreacting at an obviously mundane physical touch.

Steering her attention away from stray thoughts, she starts making her way down each of the worksheet’s twenty-six columns, gleaning confidence with every additional letter written. Solas approves her technique and effort with a hum and returns to his seat.

Lucille assiduously copies the letters until around Q, it is then that her attention wavers and her eyes wander. She glances to her right through the finely carved balcony balusters; Wednesday must be a good day for the library as there are quite a few people meandering about on the first floor. A throng of them press against the service-counter, behind which Sera giggles apprehensively and shrugs her shoulders in what is likely an attempt to compensate for unanswered questions. Another employee with a cropped and shaved hairstyle sits in the swivel-chair near Sera, playing what looks to be a game on the computer. Lucille puzzles whether or not Dorian approves of this pattern, since he seems to be the figure of authority at Books of Boccob. _Oh well I guess._ She flicks her gaze back up in front of her.

It is with devilish delight then that she spies Solas fixating upon her volume of faerytales with narrowed eyes and angled brows, a hand splayed across the book’s spine holding it close to his face. Grey-blue eyes twitch to-and-fro eagerly taking in what the text has to offer.

_Light reading my ass, he’s on tenterhooks._

The absorbed actions of her tutor strike a singular chord in Lucille as she regards his countenance. She notices faint freckles and scars adorning his face in the same breath as she wonders what he reads and how he finds it; admires the keen cast of his high cheekbones and noble brow whilst wishing to see the mind beyond them. Might she someday lose herself in ink and paper? Does Solas know what this tutelage means to her? Why did he offer himself as her tutor in the first place?

“I’m curious wh-” Lucille launches into inquiry when Solas’ sharp eyes align with her own, waylaying her original intent. “…What it is that you’re reading.”

He lays the leather-bound book flat on the desk and tents his fingertips together before him. “It is an Old World legend of the King of Mountains. Would you like to hear it?”

Lucille nods earnestly and places her elbows atop the desk, angling forward and cupping her chin in her hands as Solas tells the tale:

_“During an age long past, a mighty Mountain King raised his throne on lofty peaks. From there he observed the world beneath him with disdain for the weakness, cowardice, and foolishness beget by the heart’s passions. Thus the Mountain King sealed his heart within a golden cask and buried this deep within the earth so all that he despised could never befall him._

_“Yet without a heart, every joy and sweetness was lost to him, and the king turned tyrannical and cruel. Many attempted to kill him, but no blade could slay his heartless body. Ergo, man and beast alike scoured the empire for the hidden heart, only to end empty-handed._

_“However, a servant of the Mountain Castle knew of the king’s advisor, a fire demon who resided in the castle’s great hearth. One night, the servant snuck before the hearth and, aware no demon deigns offer something for nothing, held out a severed lock of their own hair above the embers. Flames enveloped their hand, consuming the hair as a disjointed voice drawled, what dost thou seek?_

_“When the servant requested the location of the Mountain King’s heart, the fire demon cackled and said, thou must propound more than petty strands off your head for that; bargain with your legs so I may walk from this place._

_“So the servant stepped into the fire, and as searing tongues licked their body the demon howled with laughter. The servant asked what was so funny and he said, when the Mountain King sealed his heart within me I knew longing, and with your legs I shall know freedom._

_“And with that, the fire demon stepped out from the great hearth with his new mortal legs and fled.”_

“So I suppose the lesson there is, never consort with demons no matter if you are king or servant?” Lucille surmises as Solas closes the book. “My gosh, that servant was so stupid.”

“Why do you say so?”

“Because the demon never promised to release the heart, only to reveal its location, so it was a foolish trade to begin with.”

“Oh? What might you have done differently?” A flash of teeth betrays Solas’ interest as he poses the question.

“Well,” Lucille pensively taps her index finger on her lips and looks east out one of the library’s square windows. “One thing I might’ve done is ensure the wording of the demon-deal didn’t, well, suck. Y’know there’s an important difference between _show_ me the heart and _give_ me the heart. Or…I could’ve taken the fun route and tricked the demon.” With the last few words she sweeps her gaze back to Solas and curls her lips in a toothy grin.

“A trick?” His eyes darken as he encourages her to continue. “Do regale me with the details, da’len.”

“Alright, alright,” her grin widens while she scoots her elbows further onto the desk, as though about to divulge a secret. “So the demon wished for freedom, yes? Instead of legs, I’d convince him that a lantern is a better bargain. That’s something that makes fire portable, after all. And then, once the fire demon was inside, I’d smash the lantern and seize the heart. Although…” Lucille loops some of her hair around her fingers, reassessing. “It seems like an awful amount of trouble for a king who wasn’t the greatest person anyway. Realistically I’m more likely to flee the kingdom, and I’d probably do the lantern thing anyway and take the fire demon along. He seemed interesting, and it mustn’t be fun living stuck in a hearth advising a heartless king.” She reclines back into her chair.

“I must admit, I enjoy your reimagining far more than the original. I myself would sooner associate with a fire demon longing for freedom than with a king who would forsake his own heart.” Solas smiles, and this time it reaches his tired grey eyes. “Perhaps someday you will write stories in addition to reading them. Provided you put forth the practice necessary to achieve such that is.” He gestures at the unfinished worksheet, a lightly teasing tone in his speech.

“Yes, hahren.”

_______

Moonlight glows green in Lucille’s Elven eyes, bestowing the lowlight vision of a cat as she silently steps past her landlord’s large house and creeps up a set of wooden stairs into her guesthouse-made-apartment.

After locking the door behind her she relieves her arms of bags of groceries upon the polished granite countertop, and then examines the rice-cooker she bought on a whim. A whim which had everything to do with its similarity to one her parents have back at home.

In spite of said similarity, the mushroom and lentil stew it cooks tastes unalike what she ate so many times in the past. _It might be the water here…_ She consumes the steamy meal completely anyway, and prepares for the night. The last thing done before crawling into bed is decompressing the decorative folding screen used to divide the ‘bed’ half of the room from the ‘living’ and ‘kitchen’ half of the room.

Lying on her back on the mattress, Lucille shuts her eyes and luxuriates in the sensation of slipping betwixt silk sheets and a fluffy silken blanket. A pleasant shiver races through her at the cool sensation, and she has a spot of fun kicking and thrashing about before settling down to slumber.

_Until next time, da’len._

It is impossible to repress the closed-mouthed smile that bridges her face as Solas’ parting words echo in her ears. She cannot remember the last time she ended the day so hopeful; next week’s lesson will not arrive soon enough. Someday she will read! And write too! The writing aspect of learning was unanticipated.

_May I?_

Lucille recalls Solas' inquiry and feels the phantom sensation of his lithe hand against hers. She imagines mirroring the phrase back at him. _May I?_ She would ask, hand hovering close enough to his to transfer static. With his assent, she would grasp his hand, splay his fingers and slowly suck the digits of one into her mouth, revelling in the sound of a gasp from him.

“Bloody hell,” she swears, a sudden warmth surging through her body and contrasting with the cool of the bed. Her brain then spins threads of thought unbidden.

What sort of things does Solas enjoy, she wonders, if he would not rebuff her that is. Might he hum in appreciation as she strokes the underside of his finger with her tongue? Or release a shuddering sigh while she drags her teeth over his knuckles? Surely he would find such ministrations pleasurable when applied to his ears. How she so adores the shape of them, and she would tell him as much in licks, nips, and bites while sitting astride his lap in one of the stiff library chairs with their overstuffed cushions. First his ears, then his neck. Maybe his collarbone? His lips?

“Ahh… _fuck_. Fuck, fuck, fuck,”

Lucille feels her heartbeat from her chest all the way to the apex of her thighs. She rubs her legs together, wishing the tender heat would go away. This fantasy is ill-timed, and inappropriate, completely astoundingly inappropriate. Yet there is nothing for it, she was blasted to the farlands the moment she considered kissing him. Better judgement is a distant concept as she slips a hand below her waistband and rubs slow circles into her mound just shy of her clit, cursing softly.

The thought that she might be depraved for pleasuring herself to fantasies of one she called _hahren_ mere hours ago tickles the edges of her consciousness. Yet the consideration fails to curb the burgeoning flames within her, instead her breath catches and her muscles clench. She lowers her fingers to her pulsing peak of heated nerves and delays, granting herself a moment to regulate now shallow breathing. She really should sleep rather than rollick in lush visions, but all she can imagine is what it might feel like to have his hands upon her, graceful fingers pinching her nipples to tight points while he pins her hips with his own.

Lucille swirls the pads of her own fingers around her now aching arousal and bites her lip to silence a small cry. Would Solas be a quiet lover or a loud one? The salacious question stokes the most carnal curiosity as the jerks of her arm pace faster and she bows her knees for more leverage.

The young elf comes with a muffled whimper. Spates of pleasure radiate from her core through her limbs, and she pictures Solas pressing her skin with fluttering kisses and gentle words as she rides them out. When throes of gratification ebb, worries settle in. First, she truly does feel depraved, but dismisses that as mislaid self-consciousness. Then, as she flips to her side and curls her legs up against her chest, a graver worry hews at her.

What if this prurience for a person she hardly knows is but a deluded coping-mechanism for loneliness and homesickness?

Lucille then and there decides that the logical thing to do is put a tight lid on her passions, and pray by morning they are smothered like fireflies in a jar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, thank yall so, so, so much for the comments and kudos and views and just everything. It is beyond flattering for me and it is awesome that you, yes you, read my story. Thank you.
> 
> The King of Mountains legend is borrowed from DA’s Frostback Mountains codex entry, Howl’s Moving Castle, and my own imagination. When I decided that the fire demon just took the legs and ran, I was all, I gotta see what that looks like, so I drew him: apostatedreams.tumblr.com/post/118178119968


	5. crow's nest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elvish from: archiveofourown.org/users/FenxShiral
> 
> Da’dahn = Little bee
> 
> Eanain = Birdie
> 
> Lethallen = Blood kin, very close and dear friend (gender neutral)

“Lavellan darling, will you come here for a moment?”

Lucille startles a bit at the request of her landlord, halting mid-mount of her bicycle. She was just about to take off into the dim indigo light of early dawn to work the usual opening shift at Nightingale Bakery. Since the short time ago that she moved into the second storey of her landlord’s little guest-house, they occasionally crossed paths as Lucille arrived or departed. Not an especially difficult thing to do considering her landlord uses the ground floor of the guest-house as an art studio. However, typically such encounters consist of nods of polite acknowledgement or concise well-wishes. The request for her time is unusual.

She nudges her bike’s kickstand down with one foot and somewhat guardedly acquiesces. “Yes, Madame Vivienne?”

How Vivienne manages to appear prim and polished in every instant Lucille will never fathom. Even shy of six in the morning, her attire is crisp and cosmetics carefully applied. The only evidence that she indeed was working in the studio she stands in the doorway of is the fine dusting of marble particles powdering her hands and forearms, and even that looks intentional.

“I require a small favour of you.” Vivienne wastes no words. “A colleague of mine mistakenly left this in my office yesterday afternoon. From what I understand, it is to go to Leliana. Will you deliver it?”

With a flick of once wrist, Vivienne brings forth a manila envelope that is secured shut with a strand of twine. Its surface is unmarked save for a looping line of elegant penscript.

“Sure it’s no trouble at all.” Lucille says as she accepts the envelope with both hands, and for an instant baffles over the dense weight of it pressing her fingers.

“I didn’t ask if it would be trouble, my dear.”

Had such condescension come from anyone else, Lucille might ruffle and riposte, but as it is she recognizes that austerity is merely Vivienne’s way, and not a personal affront. In a sense, there is something meritorious in the purposeful precision pervading the human woman’s every facet. That, and somehow hopping onto her bicycle and hightailing it to Firelink street is far more appealing than lingering to question Vivienne about the status of her four humours.

After Lucille makes it to the bakery and fastens her bicycle on the curl of metal pipe at the side of the building that acts as the bike-rack, she pushes against the door and discovers that it is, in fact, locked. A short sigh whistles through her teeth. How peculiar it is that Leliana has not opened the shop yet. Every morn since Lucille was hired her manager was always found sipping tea at one of the bakery’s dainty, round tables, patiently waiting for her and The Iron Bull to arrive. Of course, it is Bull’s day off today, but still… This is the second unusual circumstance of the day and the sun has not even fully risen yet. She wonders if it will become a pattern.

With naught to do except wait, Lucille seats herself on the grassy strip between sidewalk and street, and leans against the smooth bark of one of the two lofty birch trees in front of Nightingale Bakery. She absently stares south-eastward towards the vacant lot neighbouring Books of Boccob. The space is overgrown with weeds and wildflowers, as well as a single tree with spiny, low-hanging branches and oblong-shaped leaves; although shrub-like, the tree easily is five meters tall. Lucille squints at its glossy leaves and attempts to determine its species for a short time, before glancing down at her wristwatch.

 _Nearly a quarter past six._ Nascent disquiet blooms in Lucille’s belly, and grows along with the space between the horizon and the red orb of the sun. _What if something happened to Leliana?_

Lucille pinches and pulls blades of green grass with her fingertips and deliberates whether or not she should run up the street and use the nearest phone-booth to just call her. This deliberation is not mulled over for long, however. There is the telltale click of a lock, and then the door of the bakery swings open not even a heartbeat after. Lucille barely has time to turn her head before Leliana is at her side.

Her manager hunches over, palms pressing upon her thighs as she releases a few wheezing breaths. “Lavellan, I…I’m so sorry to keep you waiting. I was…distracted.” Leliana manages to convey whilst catching her breath.

Bewildered, it takes Lucille a moment to realize that the redhead’s windedness is due to the speed with which she must have come downstairs from her home. Of course, this realization raises yet more questions.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Lucille assures, getting to her feet. “Are you alright? What happened?”

“Yes, I’m fit as a fiddle, and come, come. I will show you.” With the last sentence, Leliana, still hunching over, cocks her head to the side and shoots Lucille an intent and almost teasing grin.

Her manager’s sudden roguish bearing has Lucille’s veins vibrating with anticipation as she tails her through the unlit bakery, beyond the ‘Employees Only’ door, past the basement entrance, and up a steep set of creaking stairs.

“After you,” says Leliana once they reach the landing, politely ushering Lucille through the front door.

Leliana’s home appears airy and bright as well as cozy. The place is afforded an odd artistic appeal by the ( _intentionally?_ ) mismatched wallpaper adorning every wall. Lucille ventures a few paces into what must be the dining area judging by the oval of a table bedecked with coordinated cloth and placemats. In the living room to the right a television-set softly plays in a lilting language she does not understand. To her left gauzy, white curtains billow with the breeze entering through the open window behind them.

The curtains are parted and pushed aside by Leliana, who then beckons Lucille with a smile and a wave of her hand, “Look out the window.”

The young elf practically skips over to the north wall’s window, curiosity compelling her movements. Initially, the tall and sprawling tree in the backyard seizes her gaze. It is gnarled, bereft of leaves, and peppered with lichens, yes, but what commands attention are the near-dozen dark forms settled upon its spindly branches.

“Crows.” Lucille breathes.

The very first time Lucille ever attempted to lie it was to save a life; the memory of the ordeal remains vivid within her mind. When she was but a child, her house developed a mouse problem. Looking back on it now, the rodents likely moved in seeking shelter from that year’s harsh winter. Of necessity, her father acquired a few mousetraps designed to kill the pests. They were awful, spring-loaded contraptions affixed to rectangular, wood bases and baited with cheese. Lucille did not think much of them until one night, whilst cleaning the kitchen after supper, she saw one of the creatures they were intended to eliminate. The tiny brown mouse that scurried across the tile floor struck her as a helpless, fuzzy thing, and from that moment on she could not bear the thought of its life ending with the snap of a metal bar.

During that same night, after her parents and brothers were sound asleep, Lucille snuck through the house setting off each and every mousetrap with a spoon, in what she believed was a cunning effort to spare the animals. Afterwards, she slept satisfied due to the success of her ploy. However, the following morning when she was outside aiding her father with the task of chopping firewood, it was made clear that she was not so cunning after all.

‘Strange night last night, eh _da’dahn_?’ her father queried. Lucille froze mid-chop and guardedly glanced up at him, already anticipating more questioning to come. ‘I heard each and every mousetrap go off, but not a single mouse was caught’, he continued. ‘You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?’

Gears whirred within Lucille’s mind; she did not want to lie, but the truth would not help her or the mice, so she sought greyer ground. ‘I would. I triggered the mousetraps, _Babae_ , because…last night I saw a mouse in the kitchen, and it spoke to me. It said that if I set off all the mousetraps that it would grant me a wish, and I was going to wish for enough food to feed us and the mice, so we wouldn’t have to kill them…’

‘Where’s that wish of yours now? Think ahead, _da’dahn_.’ Her father tapped his skull through the tangle of grey hair on his head for emphasis. Then he took in a breath and stiffened his shoulders, as if ready to sigh. Instead he asked, ‘Do you know what happens to liars?’

In that instant, Lucille was thankful for the wood-axe she leant on like a walking-stick, because she could have lost her balance beneath a question like that. Also, she was sure when her father finished grilling her, he would notify her of the inevitable punishment she would receive for her misdeeds.

‘They turn into crows.’ He answered his own question and jabbed a thumb back over his shoulder at a tree—one not unlike Leliana’s—behind him where some of the black birds he referenced roosted.

In the sudden, cantankerous manner children are partial to, Lucille replied, ‘Well I would not mind turning into a crow.’

A high-pitched noise pulls Lucille’s senses back to the present, and she looks downward into the three flower-boxes just outside Leliana’s window. In one grows a sharp-scented, jagged-leaved mint plant, and in another is a bolting cilantro plant crowned with white flowers. Yet what currently resides within the central box is no flora, but a very different sort of life.

“Are they-?”

“Baby crows, yes,” supplies Leliana. “My girl, Muninn, laid eggs nearly three weeks ago. I knew the time was approaching when they would hatch, so every day I have been checking, checking, checking. Until finally, here they are! Nearly.”

Of the three pale green, speckled eggs nestled in the bulky nest, one hatchling works at splitting its shell in two, another whittles away an initial hole, barely big enough to poke the tip of its beak through, and the last has not yet begun. The two women lean in close over the windowsill and observe the soon-to-be-born chicks in awed silence, interrupted occasionally by the baby crows’ squeaking and the caws of those in the leafless tree outside.

Witnessing the birth of new life is incredible, inestimable. In the cool of the morning, Lucille’s heart hums with warmth and wonder as she watches the tiny birds labouring to enter the world.

The nest itself holds some interest as well. The structure is composed of an array of twigs, and also dry leaves and lichen, pine needles ( _where did those come from?_ ), and bits of moss and fluff in the divot where the eggs reside for softness. Lucille leans further for an even closer look.

_Caaw! Caaw! Caaw!_

A sudden outcry trumpets directly in Lucille’s ear, and one of the dining-room chairs clatters as she leaps backward from the window with surprise.

“That would be Muninn.” Leliana inclines her head towards the large crow that stands on the windowsill between Lucille and the nest, making a show of puffing its ruff-feathers before cawing a few more times. “Quiet, Muninn. This is Lucille Lavellan, and she’s a friend, see?” Leliana gives Lucille a quick kiss on the cheek.

The words and actions of the redhead elicit an immediate change in Muninn the crow, who calms down and starts to strut from side to side of the windowsill, eyeing Lucille curiously.

“You can pet her if you wish,” says Leliana. “She likes having the space between her wings scratched.”

“Ooh, okay.” Muninn tilts her head sideways at Lucille’s approach, first one side, then the other, and back again. The bird stills when Lucille presses her fingers into her plumage to scratch the spot Leliana recommended, cooing. “ _Awwe_ you do like that, don’t you _eanain_?”

“She makes fast friends when she knows you’re someone she can trust. Her mate, Huginn, and the others do as well.”

“They’re the ones out on that tree then?” Lucille uses her free hand to point at the tree in the backyard. Leliana nods affirmatively in response. “So, do you take care of the crows here?”

“Yes and no. They’re all wild, but friendly, and happy to eat sweets. I’ve also taught Huginn and Muninn as well as a few of their children to deliver letters and small trinkets.”

“That is. So. Sick.” Turning, Lucille abandons petting Muninn to stare agog at her manager, who returns a mild smile at her words. “How does it work exactly?”

“Crows are strikingly fast learners,” begins Leliana. She whistles thrice in staccato succession, and Muninn crosses the short distance to alight upon her right shoulder. “They remember faces, locations, names… So they’ll take an item where, or to whom, I tell them to. They are not perfect though. I have had things come back undelivered at times.

“Even so that is like something out of an old song. _Fantastic_.” Lucille compliments as she marvels at the elegance of the crow perched upon the other woman’s shoulder. Muninn is jet-black from feet to beak with a subtle blue-green iridescence that becomes apparent when she turns on Leliana’s shoulder and glides back to her nest. “Y’know, I’ve heard a few tales about crows.”

“I will love to hear them, but,” Leliana heads towards the front door and holds it open, “we really ought to open shop first. I apologize for the unusual morning.”

“Don’t sweat it,” Lucille reassures, passing the threshold into the stairway. “Baby crows hatching is a rock-solid reason to open the bakery a little late really.”

“How happy that there we feel mutually.”

_______

Yesterday during work, Cole could not keep quiet. For the entirety of the time Lucille spent with him, he sang songs under his breath; whispered outlandish insights about seemingly random customers; and, eerily, as they were riding bikes up a hill he said to her, _You are waiting for something, and your day will come_ , even though she swore she never had spoken about anticipating a second meeting with Solas.

Today, however, is quite the opposite. On this day, Cole does not speak at all. He arrives to work with his hands ink-stained, and shivering in spite of the ribbed sweater he wears underneath his polo-shirt. The sink-water runs blue when he washes them. Whenever interaction becomes necessary, he says what he wants to with a nod, a gesture, a dart of the eyes, but never a sound. Leliana, possibly from working with the quirky human for some time, is entirely nonphased by Cole’s duplexity, and appears to know what every wordless gesture of his means.

The lack of talking certainly does not stifle the little, everyday conversations usually had in between helping customers. The trio chat and merry-make, mostly enjoying the excitement of the crow hatchlings upstairs. Lucille and Cole do a couple of bicycle deliveries, but mostly business is sparse, sparing Lucille an opportunity to entertain her co-workers with her crow tales. This results in Leliana also sharing a couple stories of her own, playfully blurring the lines between fantasy and embellishment as she does so.

On more than one occasion since Cole arrived, Lucille catches Leliana’s expression shifting when he is not looking into a small and sincere smile. Acceptance. Appreciation. A magnet between two metals, Lucille’s thoughts muddle in the thick of discordant emotions. Of course, she is grateful and glad to know those at Nightingale Bakery. Leliana, Cole, and Bull continue to manifest personalities that are veritable and kind every day that she works with them. Yet the rosy gold weights and pendulum of the hemlock grandfather clock draw her gaze as she leans against the wooden countertop and contemplates the acidic jealousy that reared its head like a green-eyed monster haunting her mind.

It is not difficult to feel jealous in the face of the companionable care Leliana directs at Cole because of his individual qualities. There is friendliness, mutual respect, and an absence of the patronization that Lucille is all too familiar with.

Without a doubt, Lucille loves her family, but in this moment she curses them under her breath, wondering why ( _why, why, why_ ) they did not accept her brother, Marmion, for all that he is in the way Leliana clearly accepts Cole.

Marmion, her elder brother, ever shy, ever curious, and almost as keen of asking questions as Lucille. Although he received far more odd looks as his questions became increasingly contingent upon his inner-mental reality, and far fewer answers when he ceased to use his voice. Marmion’s evolution was a slow one, and it was just that, _an evolution_. Not the spiralling descent into madness that her mother and father were convinced of. Not the puerile phase of a confused young adult her eldest brother, Frederic, reckoned on. Definitely not an endangerment to the community their neighbours presupposed. For all that others shunned her brother as a hazard due to his uncommon behaviour, at the end of the day it was ever clear that others, in their ignorance, were more of a hazard to Marmion.

 _At least he has Alphonse, at least he has Alphonse,_ Lucille repeats to herself, referring to Marmion’s twin, confident that the two are taking care of one another as they always have. Yet she still experiences a twinge of guilt for not being there for them, and a sting of shame for her jealousy on Marmion’s behalf. This must show on her face because she feels a feather of a touch upon her left shoulder, and when she turns eastward Cole is there, silent as snowfall.

When Lucille next speaks, her urge is to lie, but she knows Cole will see past it. He is good at that. The human boy cuts through façades like warm butter. So she offers a lighthearted truth instead.

“Hey Cole…I was just thinking of someone I care for,” she explains, “but I oughtta be more on top of the here and now instead of being such a space-case, eh?”

Cole points at his own head, and then flutters the fingertips of both hands on either side of his face, momentarily closing his large eyes. The whimsical gesture seems to simulate rainfall, or confetti. Lucille cannot manage to maintain any sort of dour expression in the wake of Cole’s unique and unintentional charisma. So she cheers up instead.

“Are you implying that I’m imaginative? Or perhaps that I cannot see the ground beneath my feet for all the clouds around my head?” She queries buoyantly, clasping her hands behind her back and rocking on her heels.

Cole half-answers with a nod, and then another voice chimes in, “I can forgive those clouds around your head, Lavellan, for, as you can see, there’s no one here.” Leliana says, extending her arm, palm up, in an arcing motion to indicate the bakery’s empty floor. “Therefore, how about the three of us take a break for a few minutes and have a peek at the nest?”

The proposed break stirs everyone to full attention, particularly Cole, who has not yet met the three newborn birds. He and Lucille pass through the short back-hallway and ascend the creaky stairs to the second floor in time, both taking wide strides to skip the odd steps in their mutual enthusiasm, goofy grins gracing their flushed faces. Leliana follows, tsking amusedly. Upon reaching the landing, the pair simmer down and wait politely for their manager to open her front door.

“Go ahead you two. I’m sure the little ones are hatched by now.”

“Two of them are,” supplies Lucille, leaning out the dining-room window over the flower-boxes with Cole, “but the last one has not even started.”

“Oh?” Leliana draws near and assesses the unhatched egg with a weary brow. “Usually crow eggs do not hatch in unison,” she says with her customary collectedness, “I would not mind it.”

From there the other two hatchlings, entirely free from their shells now, steal the show with their cute and constant chirping and bizarre baby-proportions. The little crows have a thin membrane of skin covering their undeveloped eyes and are nearly featherless, with beaks too big for their heads, and heads too big for their necks. When Lucille thinks about it, they are really sort of ugly, but less _hideous_ and more _so-ugly-it-is-cute_. Regardless, she, Cole, and Leliana take in the rare sight, until Muninn swoops in and settles her bulk atop hatchlings and egg, eclipsing them from view.

“Protective mother, you.” Leliana leaves the window and takes a seat at her oval-shaped table.

“Perhaps the third egg will hatch with her sitting on it?” Lucille suggests as she turns away from the nest.

“It’s a possibility…”

“ _Oh!_ ”

Both of their heads snap back towards the north window, where Cole is stood up, facing away from them, a great and imposing crow alighted atop his left shoulder. This one stands significantly larger than all the other birds. With the window light framing them, for an instant to Lucille, Cole and crow form a slightly spooky silhouette, but the spell is broken when he slowly turns around, mien mild.

“He startled me. But he just came in to say hello, and to see his children.” Cole explains, meeting Lucille's surprised eyes and Leliana’s wry smile.

“Well, well, it seems Huginn remains fond of a dramatic entrance as always.” The redhead reaches up to pet the crow on Cole’s shoulder, and laughs when he avoids her by hopping to the other one. “Ornery old man.”

Huginn the crow makes what is best described as a light-pitched purring sound, whilst affectionately nipping at locks of Cole’s pale blond hair. Seeing this interaction, Lucille grins and chimes, “Ohh! He likes you, Cole. He’s a bee in a buttercup right now.”

“He _only_ likes Cole, everyone else gets the cold shoulder.” Leliana teases.

Cole covers his mouth with one hand and fake-whispers to Lucille, “Huginn does follow me on deliveries occasionally”, earning an artificial eye-roll from Leliana. “And sometimes, I even give him scraps.”

Lucille snickers gleefully. “Ahh so _that’s_ why he’s so big, it’s all the people-food you sneak to him!”

“If Cole is not sneaking it, the little rascals are stealing it. So,” Leliana tilts her chair to look at the cuckoo-clock hanging in her kitchen nearby, and then claps her hands together below her chin. “I hope you two are ready to return to work.”

As they all descend downstairs to the shop on the ground-floor, wooden steps whining beneath their feet, a fugacious pinprick of a thought needles the back of Lucille’s mind. She silently ponders _what could it be_ , as anxiety about her own forgetfulness stiffens her spine. Yet when she sidles back behind the bakery’s glass display-case and wooden counter-top, and spots her backpack wedged within its usual cubby along with her bicycle helmet, the memory flashes back.

“Ah! Leliana,” she exclaims.

“What? What is it?”

“I just remembered that I have something to give you.” Lucille crouches on one knee in front of her cubby behind the counter, and retrieves from her canvas backpack a manila envelope that is secured shut with a strand of twine. “Here,” she rises and offers Leliana the envelope with both hands. “My landlord, Madame Vivienne, told me that someone left this in her office yesterday, and… Leliana?”

The atmosphere in the room suddenly stales, stagnates. Leliana stands perfectly petrified before Lucille, her mouth uncharacteristically agape with a silent gasp. The only part of her that moves are her eyes, which widen and tremble as they bore into the front of the envelope Lucille holds. Then she reads aloud from the looping line of elegant penscript marking its surface:

“ _For Leliana. From Josephine. Always your fan and friend._ ”

Leliana gingerly takes the envelope off of Lucille’s hands. _What a relief that is_ , Lucille thinks, as it was beginning to feel much like a figurative brick straining her muscles. Albeit worry over what is wrong and what the envelope might contain still strain her conscience. _Is she alright? Should I ask? It might be rude. It’s not exactly my business. Maybe I should apologize. Apologize for what?_

“Leliana—” Lucille begins, then gets cut off.

“There is no need for concern, Lavellan.” The air is sweet again and the corners of Leliana’s mouth curl up ever so slightly, as if her short slip in cool composure did not occur. “And thank you for delivering this to me.”

With that, the puzzling subject drops before anybody even brings it up. That is, until Lucille’s shift ends and she makes her way to the front door to depart. As she passes across the shop floor, Cole, who cleans one of the petite round tables to her left, says with a whisper-thin voice, “You might ask her about it. With you she will not be angry. She is hurting, haunted, seeking a reason to climb the ladder.”

To keep things covert, Lucille leaves without outwardly acknowledging Cole’s words, although they are with her the entire bike ride back.

_______

_…Concern is a steadfast emotion; I cannot tell you how to feel, my friend. What I can tell you is that I am faring better with time, and resting when I am able._

_Enough about my health though. Recently I found myself reading through previous letters of yours, and questions came to me. So, naturally, my very first impulse was to keep them in mind for our next correspondence. I know all too well how disappointed you would be was I not to ask you first. Could you tell I wrote that last sentence with a laugh? That is not one of my questions though. Rest assured._

_Solas, is it ever possible to truly change a person? By which I mean, could an aspect of a person be entirely transmuted or severed? Or, conversely, is the perceived change in one a building upon what is already there? Not losing or transforming, but gaining, counterbalancing._

_More importantly, which would you prefer to be so?_

_~ W._

_P. S. Please tell me more of Volvyn. Does the town have any stories or phenomena that catch your attention? I’ve heard that there are some remarkable coastal caves down there._

Lowering the third page of his dear friend’s letter, Solas’ mind percolates with wonder. How might he further characterize the town of Volvyn for them in his response? Where shall he begin in a description of what he has been up to as of late? Surely he ought to mention Lucille Lavellan, as well as the heedless choices sleep deprivation led him to.

Ah, but then they undoubtedly will question his lack of sleep in an ensuing letter. Nope. Cannot have that. He would write that he has not slept because of his worry for them, or he would not write that and they would simply surmise it. Either way the information would potentially threaten his friend’s tenuous health. There is no logical reason to nettle them with his problems.

 _And what of their abrupt talk of change?_ Solas also wonders. Despite the untroubled tone of his dear friend’s writing, those queries of theirs seem dire. Do they ask such pithy questions of him as a method of distraction from the concerns he has for their wellbeing? To ask him those things… They were cognizant of the implications between the words they wrote, and they asked aware that he likely will not answer, only dwell. Although, his _lethallen_ is clever, but not sneaky. That they casually threw in some questions as a way to misdirect his passions is doubtful. Furthermore, they even expressed the desire not to tell him how to feel, that they cannot tell him how to feel. _So the queries are sincere._ Solas thinks he ought to know by now that his dear friend only ever says exactly what they mean— _an admirable quality_. Solas’ own tendencies and perspective are to blame for his hesitancy to immediately take them at their word.

_Lethallen, my dear friend, how are you so wise and yet so sanguine?_

It is silly, perhaps, but Solas begins writing his response with that very question.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, I pulled a few teeth out writing this chapter. However, in the end I was pleased.
> 
> In confidence, a number of elements in this fanfic are drawn from my personal experiences. Also, I try to avoid careless mistakes and insensitive descriptions. However, please feel free to let me know if there’s anything I ought to consider working on or revising. There is never a point in which I know enough, so feedback is valuable.
> 
> The names for the mated pair of crows, Huginn and Muninn, are adopted from Norse mythology. In the original legend, they are a pair of ravens. I use crows in my story because crows are social, whilst ravens are solitary.
> 
> Thank you for reading the fifth chapter!


	6. from ruins

Books of Boccob is noisier than usual this morning, which is to say there is plenty of poorly-contained whispering. When Lucille pushes past the old building’s lacquered double-doors, quite a sight greets her. A small group of young people press impatiently up against the acrylic service-counter, apparently bombarding an incredibly irked-looking Sera with questions. He co-worker, who Lucille presumes is Krem, currently preoccupies himself with a videogame at the library’s work-computer, either ignoring or oblivious to Sera’s plight.

“Look, _look_ ,” Sera addresses the small crowd with her hands up, as if backed into a corner. “I dunno when he’s gonna be here—next week or something—so, unless the lot of you want me to kneecap the floor and forge his signature, I can’t help ya.”

Whatever she said before, this explanation does the trick, and the group leaves with some sighs and grumbles.

As soon as the double-doors fall closed in their wake, Sera whirls around and hisses at her co-worker. “This is _your_ fault, Krem. You shouldn’t have flipping mouthed off to Dagna about Varric coming here before we even know when his arse is gonna actually be in a seat signing shite!”

His retort is brusque disguised as benign. “What was that? I can’t hear you over the fun everyone’s having in my themepark.”

“Clean the candlewax out of your lil’ ears then, and tell your girlfriend that she’s making my job harder.”

“Hey, y’know I don’t want to play middleman.” Krem twists in the swivel-chair to face Sera now. “And she and I aren’t dating.”

“You may not be date-ing, but you go on dates, yeah? Don’t deny it.”

He responds to her assertion with a casual half-shrug, turning back to the game on the computer screen. “Well you know where Dagna works.”

Sera makes a lewd gesture at the back of his head with her mouth and fingers, but then appears to cheer up, mumbling something to herself and pacing with exaggerated steps. She quickly catches the other elf lingering on the opposite side of the counter.

“Hey, Lucy. You’re here early. Not making bread with Creepy today?”

“Err, he’s- No. I’m not.” Lucille stammers behind the pamphlet she was pretending to read for the sake of eavesdropping, and then returns it to the piles of others at the end of the long countertop near the doors. “ _On dhea_ , Sera.”

She feels her cheeks heat, and hesitates to consider whether it is because of her eavesdropping or because of her reason for coming to the library.

“Piss. Not you too.” Sera flinches with distaste.

The blonde elf’s reply dumbfounds her. “Me…? Pardon?”

“Yeah you. With the… _elfy_ stuff. All claptrap-drivel to me. Don’t understand it. Never have, never will. Unlike you _elfy_ elves.” Sera furrows her fair eyebrows and adjusts the frayed denim jacket she wears with a hitch of her hands and roll of her shoulders. “I may be an elf, but I’m not with it like the lot of you lot.”

“Feck,” is the only word Lucille voices at first, so shocked is she by her own simpleminded presumption that she and Sera would undoubtedly share a language based merely on the shape of their ears. “Sera, I’m sorry. I should’ve asked first instead of assuming.”

For a fleeting instant Sera seems stunned, a subtle impression only given away by the slightest dilation of her light grey eyes, and it is gone in a flash. “It just annoys me. It’s nothing serious. So don’t start talking to me like your knickers are too tight or something, alright?”

“Alright, alright.” Lucille flaps one of her hands as a friendly dismissal of the topic, and smiles so hard that her eyes squint shut. “So, ah, who were you two talking about a moment ago?”

“Oh just this tardy shitter who—”

“Varric Tethras.” Interjects Krem, who paused his game a short time ago in favour of sorting the book-returns behind the counter. Now he stands to approach Sera and Lucille. “He’s a local author. That’s in address only though. He’s not from here, and he travels around a lot to gather material for his stories. When the guy is in town though, folks can get pretty excited, which is what’s been going on here since word got out that he’ll be doing a book-signing at this library.”

“And guess whose fault that is?” Sera mumbles dryly, but Krem turns a deaf ear to her.

“We’ve not formally met, but Dorian has mentioned you. I’m Cremisius Aclassi.” He extends his hand over the countertop for a handshake. “But everyone around here just calls me _Krem_.”

“Or _Krempuff_ , or _Krembrulee_ , or _Krem-de-la-Krem_.” Sera adds.

“Yes, yes, or any of those too.” He agrees with a low laugh, shaking Lucille’s small hand. “And you go by Lucy, right?”

“Sure do. It’s rad to finally meet you. I would stay to chat, but I’ve gotta go meet someone upstairs.” Lucille says as she edges over to the stairwell door along the west wall.

“Meet who?” Sera asks.

“There’s only one person upstairs.” Answers Krem.

“That weirdo?”

“You know, they can probably hear you.”

“ _Pffft_! I don’t care.”

By the time Lucille is halfway up the stairs, she does not try to listen to them anymore. In fact, when she reaches the landing and curls her fingers around the second floor’s cold door-handle, her ears are very much filled with the sound of her own breathing and heartbeat.

_Bloody hell. I told myself I wouldn’t be nervous. This week is no different than the last._

_—but it is different, silly girl_ , throws in another thread of thought. _—and you tell yourself a lot of things_.

She does not resist briefly agreeing with this reflection. As if she could deny that she dressed in her finest clothing, or took the time to fashion her hair into a fishtail braid for just this occasion. Although appearing sharp is not even the half of it. Lucille was advised to “occasionally” take the time to “rewrite and look over” the common alphabet she practiced last week, but she would be lying if she failed to admit that she studied uninterrupted for at least an hour each and every evening. _Okay so maybe deep down I want to be impressive in every possible way, but…_

Even though playing devil’s advocate with oneself can be an enlightening mental-exercise, it also possesses the potential to be detrimental and downright time-wasting. Lucille likes to call her more contrary, antagonistic, or bothersome inner voices “mind-foils”. Most of the time, she makes the conscious choice to disregard them. _Today is not the day for mind-foils_. She forces herself to time her bated breaths until they and her heartbeat are regular, and then pushes through the door out into the second floor.

At first she does not find him; all of the desks in her vicinity are vacant. Slanted columns of morning sun stream through the window on the opposite side on the room in silence. Lucille eases a held breath from her chest and quietly closes the door behind her. Then she spies him sitting all the way over at a desk against the north wall of the room. Framed by the light of the window to his left, he is but a shadowed silhouette to her. However, she easily picks out his profile and familiar stance—bent over the desk, pen in hand scratching away upon the book before him.

Lucille tells herself that she does not wish to disturb Solas, that this is why she tiptoes over to the north side of the library with furtive feet, and a firm grip upon her backpack to prevent jostling. Yet, if she chooses to be more honest with herself, she might concede that her sneakiness is in part due to her desire to once again witness him absorbed in the act of drawing. She recalls the way he sketched for her last week, how the ease and rhythm with which he did so betrayed his skill, and almost sighs.

A few meters away now, Lucille leans on the balustrade’s handrail in order to angle herself for a more generous view of Solas’ activities. As she shifts her balance to one foot, crosses her ankles, and relaxes into that pose, he suddenly says something that causes her to doubt whether he did not become aware of her the moment she arrived at the second floor.

“You will require more than thin air to obscure yourself to have any chance of sneaking up on me.”

The notion is nearly playful, but Solas sounds abrupt, perhaps even annoyed, she cannot tell for certain. He straightens up and turns in his seat to face her, regarding her with a hard-eyed stare. Lucille rolls her tongue against the roof of her mouth and musters a swallow. _Well— I should’ve known better than to fuck around. Just…play it cool_.

“Me sneaking? Nah, I wasn’t. I was just…being library-quiet.” _Or lie, this is totally an_ excellent _social-response_ , she chides herself while contorting her expression into what hopefully is a casual smile, but likely is more of a weird grimace.

“And I was only here to take a nap.” He quips back skeptically.

Immediately Lucille recalls the quite compromised state he found her in the last time they met. Hot blood tints her skin, but her voice is even, easy.

“So you are? Here I thought you awaited me.”

“You know why I am here. Please, have a seat.” He nudges the chair across from himself with one foot, and she observes that he wears slip-on shoes with the funny, little tassels on them, and no socks.

“Certainly.” Lucille moves from the balustrade and hops onto the chair. Rather than sitting, she kneels upon its cushion and leans over the desk, perhaps broaching into Solas’ space the barest bit more than etiquette allows.

Initial shyness overcome by curiosity, she relaxes her weight upon her elbows and asks, “What are you drawing?”

“This is a simple sketch of what the ruin this library was built upon looked like in the age of its prime.” Solas moves his hands away from his sketch to expose the full page to her, and rotates it around before reclining back in his chair with unhurried ease.

For what he calls a _simple sketch_ , the image certainly contains detail, and somehow looks lifelike without appearing photographical. The strokes of ink and careful crosshatching and stippling come together to depict a sturdy structure composed of the same great, grey bricks that make up about half of today’s Books of Boccob. Yet the similarities end there. Where the library is two storeys with a squat, slate-shingled roof, Solas’ depiction of what once was shows an obtrusive and grand structure that threatens to pierce the heavens with the conical roofs crowning its two identical square towers. Betwixt these towers at the ground floor of the structure is a pointed archway that gives off the effect of a portal to another place more than of the front door it is meant to be. However, all of this imposing heaviness is completely offset by the copious finer embellishments upon the building. There are many, many windows—trefoil, quatrefoil, lancet, and an astounding rose—all with swirling, intricate tracery; and adorning the two towers’ higher reaches are small stone sculptures of fantastical creatures. (“Gargoyles”, Solas calls them when Lucille asks.) The overall effect fetches a sense of both beauty and utility. Taking the whole of the picture in, Lucille wonders at her hahren’s risky choice to draw in ink. He must have felt bold to assume he could forgo the convenience of an eraser.

“I envisaged its appearance based upon historical manuscripts in the library, as well as other ruins in town.” Solas explains, sliding the sketchbook back to his side of the desk. “I believe the building that was here might have been the main entrance of a concentric castle’s wall.”

“There were castles here? I mean, why not, right? _Wow_! I figured that this town arose sometime in the eras of the Old World. It seems so…long-established. What with the way the streets are, and places like this.” Lucille, at this point sitting in her chair in the correct fashion, speaks with animation and quick, twitching gestures in her rapt interest. Then she stills, a forming question furrowing the space between her brows. “Oh, but hahren, what you drew appears an awful lot larger than this library. Is there a reason?”

“Actually, yes.” To her personal delight, Solas seems eager to explain without hesitation. “You see, the library makes up only the western parts here.” He points to a place on the drawing with the blunt end of his inking pen. “The remainder of the structure occupied the vacant lot next door.”

“Ohh, makes sense, makes sense. It’s a shame so much of the ruin was lost to time though…” She glances through the paned window at her right, only to snap her eyes back to Solas when his next words come out doused with disapproval.

“ _Lost to time_?” He repeats this as though it were an affront, voice tight. “You make it sound as though nature or weather alone dismantled this place. More often than not it is people who destroy the wonders of this world, not time.” Then sadly he adds, “So many things are stolen, misused, and erased to suit another’s intentions.”

After hearing this, Lucille feels taken aback and even attacked due to the unexpected tension of his words. Yet the subtle note of sorrow in his voice gives her pause. Above all, the impression she receives leads her to believe that Solas’ unforeseen vehemence for the topic is born not of anger at her, but at the world.

She considers how the human lords of her homeland so casually deconstruct surviving Elven ruins in order to reuse the materials in architecture of their own, and says, “I…neglected to consider such an outlook. You have a point; the greater shame is in the ignorance and greed that spur so many to rip apart others’ history.”

Her words hang in the air, and their eyes align in the silence, pupils mirroring each other. Lucille cannot help but to notice that Solas still must suffer a lack of sleep, if the shadows in the hollows of his face are any indication. It is one thing she hesitates to question him about, whether for fear of acting nosy, or for fear of his answer.

“I agree with you, but,” he begins, severing their mutual gaze to massage his eye-sockets with a thumb and index-finger. “I spoke forcefully for the topic at hand, and forgot that there certainly _are_ parts of history that decay with time. There’s not a reason why both viewpoints cannot exist together.”

“I’m glad you came to that conclusion. I’ve always believed it important to think about as many perspectives as I can. It really helps me understand how they all fit together, and even which is right and which is wrong in some cases.” She breaks off with a lilting laugh, speaking through it. “I make the mistake of often being gullible and clueless though. There’s always more I gotta learn.”

Lucille again meets Solas’ stare and notices something like trepidation about him in spite of his inscrutable expression. It is evident in the stiff right-angle at which he sits, and in the way his now interlocked fingers are white-knuckled. _Did I say another thing that’s naïve?_

“Regardless of shortcomings you perceive in yourself, you are bright. I am sure anyone who has a lengthy conversation with you will observe that much.” At his compliment, she shies away, feeling fizzy from the abruptness of it. Coming from him, someone she sees as scholarly, it is no small thing.

“And it is something,” he continues, “that you ask questions. That you possess a willingness to learn. I will answer what I can.”

“ _Emma serannas_!” She responds without even taking a breath; the confidence he sparked in her might as well be oxygen.

“There is no need to thank me.” He declines her gratitude, and starts to retrieve materials for the reading lesson from the satchel that is slung on his chair.

“I beg to differ.”

“An action that remains to be seen.”

So fast Solas mutters this that Lucille is unsure whether she heard it properly or not. Well, there is no way she heard it right. There is no way she is not reading too far into it. There is no way that calling it an innuendo is not reading _ridiculously_ far into some mumbling she may not even have heard correctly. Yet against all logic, that small line instantly dredges up ample less-than-appropriate imaginings in Lucille’s mind. Imaginings she finds all the more potent now that the star of them sits directly across from her—and at arms-length at that! She has only to reach across a narrow desk, and she might trail her fingertips over all the curves and angles of his handsome face. And the things they could do were they to tuck themselves away in a hidden alcove. The ridges of a bookshelf would dig against her back as Solas takes her, his dignified hand covering her mouth to muffle all the indecent cries he would spill from her. She would wind her legs around the taper of his waist, urging him deeper, until they were both in raptures, until they were sore and stinging with it. She thinks that definitely is a fantasy worth begging for. The feel of his fair skin sticky against her own, half-moaned sweet nothings in her ear, and— _No, not here! Don’t think about that!_ She frantically reprimands herself.

Lucille mentally reprimands herself even more when she realizes she missed something Solas said.

“Sorry? I didn’t catch that.”

He reiterates: “I said, shall we begin now?”

“Oh! The lesson—yes, yes, of course.”

Questionable motivations aside, it is obvious that Lucille’s extra studying throughout the past week paid off. With the whole of the common alphabet no longer a mystery to her, she and Solas are able to concentrate upon more complicated, lengthy words and short sentences. To her pleasant surprise, most of these practices are manageable, and even intuitive. Only a spare few tasks set out for her prove demanding. Whenever she glances up from a particularly formidable one, Solas patiently answers any questions, and reminds her that she is capable, ripe for a challenge. She believes him. After all, she steeled herself for any and every challenge the night she left home.

Downstairs, below where the two elves continue to work the morning away, the library’s double-doors creak as they swing open and then close again. This is followed by precisely three heartbeats of silence, after which Sera shrills:

“You _complete_ arsehole!”

“Hey now, Buttercup,” a stranger says. “ _Arsehole_ , that I can live with, but _complete_ arsehole is another matter entirely.”

The stranger’s voice borders on amused, Sera not so much…

“You’re through and through! Pushing back your signing shite and then showing yer smarmy face here now. What gives? Making my work harder. I’m good with some sorting, some cleaning, some smallchat. Then— _then_ there’s your rabid hell-fans all asking, ‘ _when’s he gonna be here? I want him to autograph my pajamas! Blah, blah, blah, Tale of the High-hards, blah_.’ What giii—ves?”

“…Tale of the High-hards?”

Lucille bites her lower lip, teeth trembling with a torrent of laughter threatening to get away. Down on the first floor, Sera continues to express exasperation, which the stranger continues to calmly entertain.

“I made the mistake of attempting to strike a conversation in Elvish with her once.” Says Solas out of the blue.

“Sera?” Lucille leans forward and drops her voice to a near-whisper. “I suppose that did not go over too well?”

“I’d hoped, well, I assumed she might feel the rhythm of the language despite lacking the vocabulary.”

“I’ve found that Sera sort of knee-jerks when it comes to assumptions, especially ‘elfy’ ones, as she might put it.” Lucille cautions, idly poking the tip of a pencil’s lead with the pad of her ring-finger. “But she’s a nice friend.”

“A nice friend…” Solas echoes, as if testing the words. “I’m not sure I possess the patience to be that much to her, but I shall remember what you said.”

Within the span of a few gravid seconds, Lucille regards her own reticence, and then abandons it.

“Hey, Solas…?” With striking suddenness, she realizes that this is the first time she uttered his name aloud. If he takes notice of this change as well, Lucille does not know, for his manner is as aloof as it ever was.

Unflinchingly, she looks upon a pair of eyes that are sleepless, pale, and piercing as the day on which they met, and asks, “Can you and I be friends?”

Lucille has misgivings about this question as soon as it leaves her mouth. The thing hovers invisibly in the air, and the young elf feels inextricably trapped with it, as if the words themselves orbit around her. _Foolish—Are you even emotionally available? You’re lonely, you’re homesick_ , her mind-foils insist. _What if he sees you have a panic attack? You swore to contain your passions!_ Such things bedevil her until she is sure she deceived herself into thinking it was a good idea to ask at all. However, with the chance already taken, she also doubts the logic of her inhibition in the first place.

Whenever has Lucille liked to see someone, but also so dearly yearned to see through them as well? Never before had anyone so selflessly sacrificed their personal time to teach her something as Solas did. The genuine encouragement he offered seemed to say, _be yourself, you are enough_. He also drew her in with his sharp wittedness and eager answers for inquiries she posed. It is undeniable now that she wishes to know more of him, more of the mind behind the man.

Perhaps it is rash and selfish, but she hopes to extend their time together beyond the library, beyond only teacher and student. To hope for him as a lover truly is foolhardy, but as a friend…

However, as the silence between them seems to stretch into infinity, Lucille starts to consider this whole moment worthy of a do-over. Then, Solas motions to respond, gesturing with his lithe hands in front of his chest.

“Da’len, this is-” He reconsiders that one, and begins again. “The nature of—”

That response also is clipped, but not by indecision. Another voice unexpectedly interjects.

“Chuckles?”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Krem was playing RollerCoaster Tycoon. Had to include that. I have a fancy for early 2000s and 90s stuff. I also really enjoy medieval themes, even in a modern setting.
> 
> So, perhaps this is just me throwing doubts about. Yet I do worry, am I too wordy at all? Sometimes I fret over my way of describing things, and wonder if it comes across alright or if readers are wondering what the hell I am getting at. Feel free to let me know if anything reads awkwardly like word-soup or anything.
> 
> Anyway, thank you for reading thus far. It is a fun experience to write this and I am so happy to share it here.


	7. videocassettes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Without further delay, greetings everyone! I do at times take what is likely considered a while to update, but have assurance; I will see this fanfic through to the end. I love it far too much to leave it. And I thank you all for reading thus far- thank you so much!
> 
> If any of yall want to connect with me elsewhere, I can be found at ApostateDreams.tumblr.com

Simultaneously, the two elves turn their heads and spot a person ambling over from the stairwell. He is a dwarf with tied back golden-blond hair and a friendly smile, who wears a leather duster and boots despite the warm weather. He moseys up to their shared desk with an easygoing gait and begins addressing Solas.

“It’s a happy coincidence running into you here. Though I suppose I shouldn’t be shocked to find you in a library.” When Solas does not immediately make to respond, the dwarf scratches the stubble of facial hair on his chin with one of his large hands, as if taking something into consideration. “Oh, you remember me right?” He says. “It’s been some years, but I visited the old antique shop a lot. Bought all those busted typewriters.”

“Master Tethras.” Solas inclines his head slightly with acknowledgement. “Of course, I do remember. Although thankfully, I do not work there anymore.”

“ _Hah_!” The dwarf guffaws. “I figured Moonman would get you down eventually. He was a real piece of work. Shoddy work. Definitely missing some nuts and bolts.”

This new person speaks with his hands plenty. He is animated, lively, but not hyper, and possesses a knavishly charming bearing. Lucille decides she likes him.

“Well shit,” he continues, turning to Lucille. “Look at me rambling on and on without introducing myself. Varric Tethras. I fancy myself a storyteller, but if you ask Cass down the street, she’ll probably pronounce it _scoundrel_.”

“At least both of those sound interesting.” She replies, grinning broadly, charged up and eager to make acquaintances. “And speaking of storytelling, there’s one _you_ owe me, hahren.”

“Of what story are you speaking?” Solas asks, but it sounds more like a statement.

“The one about the antique shop you worked at. And the clock-ghosts? And the cameras?” Lucille whiffs a pencil through the air like a maestro, tracing up vaguely relevant shapes.

“I think I know where this is going.” Varric comments as he pulls over a clover-shaped stepstool and plops down upon it. “Hope yall don’t mind if I stick around for it.”

“I don’t,” chirps Lucille.

“Nor do I.” Solas says. “Although I recall you being present for a number of these events, Master Tethras.”

“Please, just _Varric_. You make me sound like a knight when you say that.”

“That would be ‘sir’, but alright. I will drop the formality if it pleases you.” He yields.

“Sooo, story time?” Lucille questions half hopefully, half jokingly.

“Yes, tell the story, ple—ase,” adds Varric, definitely jokingly.

Solas rolls his eyes, feigning annoyance. “A story for the children then.”

Settling into the prospect of an interesting tale, a cool wash of relief dissolves the anxiety jelling Lucille’s blood. It is always a pleasure to meet a new face, but now she feels beholden to Varric for his very punctual interruption. The dwarf inadvertently saved her from suffering an answer she is unready for, an answer that for once she does not wish to shoulder. At least for the time being. _You’re the one who asked,_ her mind reminds. _Reap what you sow and all that._ Of course. However, content to exist in the limbo between the bounds of her dumb question and its consequent answer, she sweeps any anxious thoughts to the edges of her mind. For now she itches only to hear the tale of the haunted antique shop.

“It began as innocently as any ghost-hunt.” Solas starts, slipping naturally into the demeanour of a storyteller. “The film from the few cameras around the shop revealed absolutely nothing out of the ordinary.”

Varric’s expression is already wryly suspicious. “So _clearly_ trouble is coming.”

“Well, the following occurrences did not end up affirming any sort of _ghostly_ presence.” Explains Solas. “Yet neither was what happened something I suspected. You see, the grandfather clock the shopkeeper believed was haunted had a cuckoo that sang for each hour.”

“Now I don’t even have to bet _that_ got irritating for you.” Varric points out.

Solas’ eyebrows pinch together momentarily as he recalls the annoyance Varric mentioned, and even Lucille flinches a bit, aware how bothersome sound-devices of human make can be on Elven ears. “It did grate the nerves.” The older elf agrees. “The customers quite liked it though. Made the shop seem quainter I suppose.”

“Quaint. Yeah. Customers love that shit.” Muses Varric.

“Then they’d sure get a kick out of where I’m from.” Lucille adds, and then a second later remembers that she absolutely does not wish to discuss where she is from. Today’s sunny sky must smile down at her, because neither Solas nor Varric press her for personal information about her homeland, and the story continues.

“One evening when I played back one of the tapes after closing, the film revealed that a child had approached the clock during the day. He stood right in front of it and simply _stared_. This carried on for a curious length of time. I had not a clue what the intent behind this boy’s actions was. Yet after a few more moments of viewing the film, I realized it.”

As Solas stops to take a breath, Lucille fidgets with the embroidered hem of her skirt with antsy fingertips, so eager is she to hear the entire story at once. By her side, Varric too seems intrigued, though not as impatient as her.

“He was waiting.” Solas picks up again. “The instant the clock chimed and the cuckoo sprang out, quick as a wink the boy reached up and wedged a bit of paper in the bird’s beak. Then he was gone, just like that.

Immediately Lucille asks, “Did you take the paper out?”

“No, no I did not.” He answers. “At the time I was torn between staying in the back room to finish the film, and pausing it to go check the grandfather clock. I chose to stay, and the film provided an answer I sought. It revealed that later on in the day someone else had taken the paper.”

“That’s a pretty roundabout way to pass notes, but I dig it.” Varric says with a lopsided grin that pinches the corners of his eyes.

“Is that really what was going on? Note-passing?” Questions Lucille, glancing back and forth between her two companions.

“That was one of my initial theories.” Solas answers again. “And it was correct in a loose sense of the term. Over the weeks that I viewed each day’s tape at the end of work, I spied the same child place folded bits of paper into the grandfather clock just as I described. And each one of these notes was taken by a seemingly random individual, usually upon the same day the boy had left it.”

“Curiouser and curiouser.” Lucille says, eyebrows raised and brown irises glinting like two tigereye stones as she taps her fingers together dramatically.

“What was curious indeed were the various reactions of the notes’ recipients. To illustrate a few: there was an elder human man who, upon reading the note he retrieved, pocketed it, and muttered things to himself as he paced about; another young Elven individual gasped as they read their note and then rushed out of the shop; and there was a human woman who scoffed and took a lighter to her note—I was actually present for that last one, and had to kindly request she leave, which she was none too happy about."

“All of that because of whatever was on the notes?” Lucille exclaims, agog, whilst Varric lets out a low whistle.

“Chuckles, are you sure that the kid wasn’t the ghost Moonman got all worked up about?”

“You know as well as I that was not the case.” Solas explains, seeming to take Varric’s joking tone seriously.

One side of Varric’s mouth lifts with a half-smile, but it is a painful thing, almost a cringe, and he flicks his gaze away. The mellow of his voice up to now fringes with something sombre as he says, “The kid, he left something in that old clock for me once… Did he ever leave anything for you?”

Varric asks this of Solas, and Lucille’s head brims with unuttered questions of her own. She puzzles over what each piece of hidden paper in the story did say, and about the peculiar child who left them. What ever could a child put on paper to garner such reactions from others? What was the motive behind it all? Somehow the tale, though satisfying to some degree, leaves Lucille greedy for more explanation.

A stern expression shadows over Solas’ angular features as he responds to Varric. “I would not say that he left anything specifically for anyone. It appeared that the notes were most often taken by whoever happened to be about when the cuckoo chimed.” He touches each of his fingertips together, making a tent of his hands as he speaks. “After all, how might a child predict to whom the notes would go in such a situation?”

“Got me there, Chuckles. It all makes for one hell of an anecdote though.” Varric laughs and leans perilously far over upon his stepstool, any somberness dispelled.

“I’ll say,” Lucille agrees. “And I have to know—” Here she lowers her voice, hoping to dim the alacrity of her questioning. “Did you ever catch him in the act, hahren? Did you speak to him ever?”

“Unfortunately, I never had the opportunity to speak to the child. And, oddly—” Here Solas lowers his own voice, mirroring Lucille, and she does not miss the soft playfulness in his eyes, nor the quirk of his mouth. “I cannot recall even ever catching sight of him in person. His presence was only known to me via the tapes.”

Varric tsks and shakes his head, wagging an index finger in the air. “It’s like I said, are you really, _really_ sure he wasn’t a ghost? I mean, come on! The notes? The film? The antique clock of indiscernible age? There’re a lot of spooky themes in this tale of yours.”

“I am far more inclined to call the child _creative_ or _intelligent_ than ghostly.” Solas says plainly.

“Bah! You and your logical explanations.” Varric grumbles.

“This is…!” Lucille snickers into the back of her hand. “I don’t know at what point I was more curious: now, or when I’d only got an introduction to this tale the time you and I first met.” She averts her eyes from both of them, and speaks softer, “I confess, I wondered about the story ever since you brought it up that day in Nightingale Bakery.”

“ _Awwe_ , did you two have a meetcute—cutemeet—whatever the heck that’s called?” Varric asks all of the sudden.

“What? No, I- uhh I sort of hit him in the face with a spoon… It was actually pretty embarrassing.” Lucille admits as the tips of her ears heat, undoubtedly turning pink to the thought.

“That is exactly what I’m talking about. And, on a related note, if you’re going around attacking innocents with silverware, a spoon is a safer bet.”

“Provided they are, in fact, innocent.” Solas adds with a rare, and absolutely alluring smirk.

From here the conversation deviates in many directions and through many topics as morning moves on to midday. The trio chat about things such as antiques, previous jobs, Varric’s book series, and interesting people they know. Lucille learns of Varric’s friends, who all sound quirky, ragtag, and fun; and Solas speaks of the invention of acrylic paint, and how it compares and contrasts to oil paint and fresco.

Both Solas and Varric seem keenly interested by Lucille’s electrician’s work. She insists it was not all that, since she was only an assistant to her mother (who is far more knowledgeable of the subject than she), and not yet to the point of entirely independent practice. Even so, her hands dance and voice quickens as she tells them all about discrete-circuitry and electron tubes, and goes over what she knows of simple integrated circuits. She cannot help but to grin all the while and sigh wistfully, for she misses her work dearly and regrets losing the opportunity to learn more from her knife-sharp mother. Be that as it may, Lucille would not have been able to learn any more from her mother even if she had remained in her homeland. So there is that.

While she shows them the multimeter tool she happened to still have in her backpack and explains to them how to read its ammeter, Varric exclaims, “I got it! You’re _Volts_!”

“I’m… _oh_!” She nods enthusiastically upon understanding. “If that’s a new nickname for me, then it has my stamp of approval.” She says with a wink and a goofy thumbs-up.

Then with fondness she remembers Varric’s nickname for Solas. It is probably ironic, taking into account how detached and even deadpan he usually acts. Then again, her hahren does have precipitous bouts of that beautiful laughter of his. _I’d love to hear him laugh now_ , she thinks longingly, staring as Solas speaks to Varric but not really hearing. _Or any time, or lots of times forever_.

Recognition that she is pining pommels her, and she realizes that she never wanted for anybody in such a way, never so harshly, never so swiftly. Rather than blushing, Lucille pales, enough for her blanched complexion to catch Solas’ concern.

“Da’len, are you alright?” He asks, and for one selfish instant she wishes she was not, just so Solas might look at her with such care for a little longer.

Instead she answers, “I’m fine, honest” with her palms held out and fingers splayed, as if to physically block his worry. “And actually, I’d really enjoy hearing how you got your nickname.” She changes the subject.

As the amicable conversing continues, Lucille learns more about her two companions. Tidbits such as that Varric has travelled to almost every one of the empire’s countries and provinces, and even most of its isles; and also that Solas has held a variety of odd jobs, and worked as an assistant to several craftmasters during travels of his own. These subjects give the young elf cause to ponder over her own life, and what directions it can take now that she is for the first time outside of the land of her birth. Of course, she already is gaining new knowledge daily, _but will I eventually travel farther?_ She asks herself. _Will I accomplish great things? Will I foster close friendships?_

The final pondering question brings her back to the one she dared ask Solas. _Can you and I be friends?_ She nearly shudders in her seat recalling it, and how she is so divided betwixt desiring his answer, and never hearing about it ever, ever again. The repeated flip-flopping from doubt to fervour and back again has her feeling rather like a pancake, griddle and all.

Around her Solas and Varric are still talking, and the company and the socializing burns Lucille’s spirit with renewed spunk. _I’ll be okay regardless of how he might reply, regardless of_ if _he replies_ , she silently reassures herself, taking a deep breath through her nose. She promptly sneezes.

Not a normal sneeze, no. Lucille’s sneeze is abrupt, jarring, and resonates in the quiet library. At least she had the sense to cover her face with her hands, except now she is sure that she holds her own wet, dribbly brains in them.

“Yeah, I’m allergic to politics too.” Says Varric, referring to whatever he was just speaking of with Solas, and without missing a beat as he passes her a handkerchief. “Keep it.”

Gratefully, and truly beholden now, she snatches the small, square cloth, and then looks up with a slow wince whilst wiping at her snot-covered nose and hands.

“Thank you, Varric.” She manages to mutter, followed by: “I hope I’m not coming down with anything…”

Fear that the universe heeded her selfish wish to be _not alright_ prods her mind. For all the hopes she hurls into the void, _getting sick_ would be the one fulfilled.

Lucille chances a glance at Solas then, embarrassed, and half-expecting him to scoff or at the very least appear put-off by the fact that she just spewed snot on her hands. Rather than any of that though, the older elf clearly appears concerned, a small frown and lines of consternation cutting his face.

“I really think,” he says, turning away and reaching a hand into his satchel that is still slung over the chair, “…that it is wise to at least check your temperature.”

He turns back, extending his arm across the desk and offering her the object he just retrieved. Pinched between his thumb and index finger is a small grey and white plastic thing with a metal nib at one end, encased with another piece of clear plastic. Lucille blinks at it.

“Chuckles, you…you really carry a thermometer around with you?” Varric intercepts, incredulous.

“Clearly I do.” Solas affirms. “It is very useful.”

“I’m not sure if I have a fever.” Lucille murmurs as she takes the device from Solas anyway and removes its clear, plastic cover. “Should I just- I guess I’ll go ahead and…”

 _This is only awkward if you make it awkward. Still, I can’t believe I’m testing my temperature here_ , Lucille mentally tells herself as she pops the thermometer into her mouth and under her tongue. Awkward or not, she feels touched that her hahren would concern himself over her physical health. It is a kind gesture that she absolutely must thank him for later.

The tiny button on the thermometer beeps when she presses it to start it up; right after, she crosses her eyes slightly to view the numbers indicating temperature on its little, rectangular screen.

_35.7_ _°C._

“’Useful’, he says.” Varric shrugs his shoulders with the palms of his hands turned up toward the ceiling. “You got a stethoscope hidden in there too?”

_36.2_ _°C._

“Do not let that curiosity eat away at you, Master Tethras.” Solas retorts with a quiet tone steeped in sarcasm.

_36.6_ _°C._

An awareness that Solas likely also uses the thermometer dawns on Lucille, and her heart pulses faster to the idea of maybe possibly indirectly kissing him. It is a youthful and immature notion, but one that she instantly becomes smitten with. Is this what her untimely infatuation came to though? Is it truly to the absurd point that anything and everything her imagination can play with in regards to Solas will wind her like a music box? Maybe so. Acceptance of these feelings and their trappings in order to create a healthy foundation for dealing with them in one way or another is key, Lucille knows. Yet she promptly forces her incorrigible mind to please _shut up_ upon noticing the two pairs of eyes staring expectantly at her, awaiting the thermometer’s results.

“Iffs noff dune yeth.” Lucille explains around the plastic in her mouth. She looks back down at the rectangular screen.

_36.9_ _°C._

A few more seconds tick by—Lucille watches them pass on the library’s gilded wall-clock to avoid the intensity of her companions’ staring—and the thermometer finally emits some successive beeps to announce the completion of its reading. When it ends up that her temperature is completely normal, Varric takes his leave.

“Well, Volts,” he says. “Now that we all know you’re not suffering from a dangerously high fever, I’m going to skedaddle.”

Lucille and Solas both bid him farewell, but he only makes it about five paces from their desk by the window before halting and doing a one-eighty.

“Right! Hold on a bit- Do you two know about Sparkler’s get-together at the beach?” He asks, and does not wait before continuing. “Yall should come. There’s going to be good food, summer fireworks, a nice crowd. So it should be great even if you’re like me and swim about as well as a brick floats.”

“Already invited. I didn’t know there’d be fireworks though!” Lucille exclaims excitedly, then, turning to Solas, “How about it?”

He shakes his head, face set in a polite half-smile. “I decline I’m afraid. It is not really my cup of tea.”

Disappointment is evident in Varric’s expression, but he does not push the subject. “Alrighty then, it’s your loss, or gain. However you prefer to look at it.” He starts on his way a second time with a final, “See ya around.”

The blooming buds of hope within Lucille wither a bit due to Solas’ negative answer. Of course, if he does not want to go, then he does not want to go, which Varric must have recognized too. Although Lucille draws much of her vitality and energy from interacting with friends, and becomes rather listless if left on her own for too long a time, she is cognizant that there are others who function on a different wavelength, whose energy drains during social gatherings and who require alone-time to recharge and to think. She pegged Solas as probably the latter type, and thus she decides not to make her own disappointment obvious, so as to avoid giving him grief. This does not stop her from privately envisioning how nice it would undoubtedly be to experience the ocean for the first time with Solas by her side though, to forage for seashells and examine tide-pools, to awe and gasp and ask him questions. She wonders whether he knows how to swim, chased by another wonder of what he looks like in a bathing-suit.

Daring to discretely eye him up and down, Lucille tries to picture what sort of physique Solas could have, concealed underneath the paint-spattered shirts and simple trousers he wears. A few features are perceptible. It is evident that he is slim-framed, with defined shoulders that complement his pointy elbows. She also can guess that his legs are well-muscled, and already admired how they taper to his knees many times before. Other than that though, the fit of his clothing leaves things to the imagination, which in Lucille’s case is vivid enough, even too much so. _Absolutely, definitely too much so_ , she concludes, actually appalled at herself for all of her lecherous thoughts and sexual fantasies, for the nights she stayed awake yielding to those fantasies, for her self-indulgent desire to push boundaries, for just everything really. _What the hell is wrong with me?_ She starts to rub at her eye sockets with the heels of her hands, and then remembers she is wearing makeup, and rubs her temples instead.

“If you are tired for today, we need not continue.” Solas suggests in reference to their lesson of reading and writing.

Lucille stills her hands and snaps to attention. “I’m not tired,” she protests. “But perhaps we should… Oh, but that’s not to say I don’t enjoy this, I just- I’m a bit out of sorts. Wait, no, that came out wrong. I feel fine, so please don’t worry. It’s all a little…” A conscious effort is made then on Lucille’s part to stop her maundering and collect her marbles, before taking a deep breath and trying again.

“Actually… I really want to thank you.” She says, choosing a different tangent. Solas’ eyebrows raise minutely as he appears genuinely, if quietly, confused. So she clarifies. “Thank you for concerning yourself over my wellbeing. It was thoughtful.”

Momentary confusion gone, he responds matter-of-factly. “It was the least I could do.”

She voices again the thankfulness from the heart of her, and the words almost feel warm on her tongue. “But it was more than you had to do, Solas, and I appreciate it. You’re a good person.”

If Solas was confused before, then he seems completely confounded now. His eyes twitch quick like flickering lights to glance out of the window, as though a proper response could be sitting on the sill, and his mouth opens slightly, preparing to speak but lacking the words, as evidenced by the silence that settles around them.

“Your appreciation will not go wasted.” He whispers at last, mien returned to his usual reservedness, but stance screaming something akin to fight-or-flight.

The incalculable mannerisms of the man before her are befuddling. Lucille likes to credit herself as decent, or at least average, at reading other people. Yet it seems that Solas either intentionally or habitually masks what would be discernible clues as to the goings on in that head of his. Nonetheless, it is also possible that he truly is dispassionate through and through; that explanation does not offer any insight into the emotional responses she _does_ discern though. Every now and then she catches sight of what she can only think to call _stress_ in him. Solas almost always maintains a metered voice and collected facial expression. However, Lucille sometimes spies stress manifest in him in other, more subtle ways, such as his restless hands, rigid back, or clenched jaw. These cues are certainly inconspicuous. Lucille is positive she only notices them because she stares at him so much and overanalyses things. Like right now—but how can she not? In spite of guessing that Solas is troubled, she is clueless as to the cause. It is not every day that she senses such a disconnect between what she knows and what she encounters, at least not one that cannot be cleared up with some inquiry and critical thinking. The sudden stress she sometimes sees in Solas leaves her questioning. Could it be something she said? Or it is something completely unrelated? What Lucille does know for certain is that she wants him to be happy. He is so kind and helpful to her, and she feels she does nothing in return except give him her company.

 _If he disliked my company then he wouldn’t bother hanging around me._ Lucille reminds herself, recalling how freely Solas spoke of the arts and other subjects with her.

“Hey…earlier, when you showed me your drawing, you mentioned that there’re other ruins in town?” Lucille ventures, hoping it is not too clumsy of an attempt to break the quiet she created between them with her thoughts.

“I did, yes.” Solas launches right into an explanation, and his hands relax slightly as he twirls an inking pen with the tips of his long fingers. “There are various ruins all around Volvyn. The hybridized structure of this library is difficult to miss. It stands out. Other ruin remnants are more integrated, only obvious to those who know what to look for. Such as the clock-tower at the town’s center.”

Lucille is aware that Volvyn’s town-center resides right at the junction of Main Street and Firelink Street. She saw the four-faced clock-tower peeking over the landscape many times when she was out and about for bakery deliveries with Cole, but she has yet to actually go in to the town-center, nor has she viewed more than the topmost meters of the tower. She tells Solas as much, and the faint note of mirth in his voice when he responds very nearly dazzles her.

“It truly is a magnificent structure.” Solas says as he lightly rests his chin upon his now interlocked fingers, and peers at her with eyes so lively, she would almost believe he magically secured sleep in the time they sat there together. “And I think it would be such a shame for you to carry on another day without having seen it for yourself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sort of broke the fourth wall the teeniest tiniest bit. Whoops.
> 
> So, stories within stories are something that’s a great joy to write. One reason is because sharing stories is a beloved activity I do with my closest friends. It was specifically fun to revisit chapter one, and to play with the yoyo that is Lucy’s thoughts and emotions. Ahh, I may have, I really totally have a thing for clockwork. I would own more than a dozen wristwatches if I could afford it.
> 
> It is always a pleasure to write about Solavellan and other things that make me happy, and I hope that this story can bring you some happiness as well.
> 
> Thanks for reading chapter seven!


	8. the clock-tower

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is short. I unexpectedly decided to break off where I did because I really wanted to update, and the structure lent itself to such a thing.
> 
> 11-Dec-15: Posting this without as much editing as usual. I'll come back to correct typos I find later.
> 
> Update: Corrected some typos.

Lucille Lavellan is unsure how she ever found good fortune enough to spend her afternoon roaming the streets of Volvyn next to Solas. Her sandals make tip-tap sounds upon the cobbles with each step, but she feels as though she floats, her joy scissors to the tethers of gravity. Albeit, every now and then she furtively glances up at him from the corner of her eye, irrationally afraid that he might vanish lest she remind herself that he really is present. This action has the secondary effect of also reminding Lucille of their prominent height difference. If she is short for an elf, then Solas is tall for one. The top of her head barely skims the bottom of his chin, and that even is with her choice of footwear granting her a couple centimetres of additional verticality.

As the pair traverse further and further west up Firelink Street, the landscape slowly transitions to a more verdant one with various species of trees, whose thick trunks grow from vacant lots and grassy banks beside the road. There are also bushes and plants wedged in alleyways, overflowing out of wire baskets around shop-fronts, and hanging down over the rims of window-boxes on the facades of multi-storey buildings. In some areas where the street is narrower, the branches of the trees reach across the gap and intermingle, creating a canopy that dappled sunlight filters through. There are also even a couple of small bridges with lattice-works of steel trusses that connect roads of higher elevations and a number of larger buildings. When passing beneath one such bridge, Lucille looks up and spies a caricature of a ghost spray-painted upon its underside. In this moment, she also seizes the opportunity to ogle Solas some more, hoping to disguise the turn of her eyes with the fringe of dark hair falling across her forehead.

“Are you enjoying the view?”

She snaps her head around so fast that her braided length of hair flips over one shoulder. “What?” She asks, with wide, nervous eyes. _Fenedhis. Did he catch me staring at him?_

Her frightened halla-eyes are obvious, she is aware, for Solas raises an eyebrow at her expectantly, before rephrasing the question.

“Are you enjoying the scenery? I could not help but to notice that you are looking everywhere but where you are walking.”

“Oh, gosh, yeah- ” Lucille stalls at first, tucking loose locks of her hair behind one pointed ear. “I’ve not been on this side of town before. The buildings are a lot…” She tilts her head back to admire an apartment complex with pale walls and ironwork balconies. “…taller. Nothing like back at home.”

“And what is back at home like?” Solas inquires softly, undemanding. It is a genuine question, and also one that Lucille could back out of.

“Back at home is…” She shrugs, adopting a slower walking pace. “It’s a lot of things. You know I’m from way out west, right?”

“I made an inference, yes.”

“Well, for starters there’re no buildings there. Not all lofty and close together like these here anyway. Farmhouses and cottages—we have those, and they’re all surrounded by acres of land. It takes a bit of walking or cycling to get to the market or the trains or anything. And there actually are towns there too, but they’re not in blocks like Volvyn. They’re more like just a single street with everything on it, and maybe some shanties.”

Solas hums and walks with his hands clasped behind his back, the ease of his gait unbroken by the stiff-looking posture. Then he makes eye contact to ask, “Did you experience much culture-shock coming here?”

A sudden and sharp laugh escapes Lucille’s throat. She thinks it catches Solas off-guard, and quickly covers her mouth to stifle herself before continuing. “Hell yeah I experienced culture-shock. I actually hated it here for a while when I first arrived. Err, _hate_ is a strong word though. To be more honest, I was scared. Scared of the newness of everything. I’d never spent a day outside of the Lord’s Land, so to take a one-way trip to another province…”

“It seems like a trying thing to put oneself through.” Solas comments.

“I did not have a choice. Well, I did have to choose, kind of… The whole situation surrounding it is…” Lucille stops to take a breath and then slowly hiss the air out with a wispy whistle. “I, uh, don’t want to talk about it. Sorry, I know I sort of started in on the subject and all—”

“That is such a silly social rule, the notion that one must complete a tangent simply because they began it.” Solas interjects, the intensity of his words making his teeth show. “If you bring up something personal, you can rescind the desire to speak of it at any time. You owe no one an explanation, least of all me.”

The concept that a person need not continue a course of conversation they began resonates louder to Lucille than her brother, Frederic’s, ‘ _well you brought it up_ ’ ever did.

“Thank you for understanding.” She mutters, smiling and sincere.

“You do not need to thank me for it, but you are welcome.”

Then she suggests after a couple of seconds of thoughtful silence: “There are plenty of other things about my home that I do not mind to tell you though, hahren.”

He responds with a quiet candour. “To hear them from you would be a pleasure.”

So she portrays for Solas the life that she knew in the fiefdom lands of the empire. She speaks of her mother, father, and three older brothers; of her family’s tree orchards and the work it took to tend them; of the other farmers and craftspersons who were their neighbours; of the geography and climate of the lands circumambient to her house; and of many other things. Lucille deliberately sticks to blithe and light-hearted memories, avoiding anything that will put salt in the wound that leaving her home inflicted. For the most part, Solas listens, only occasionally offering an opinion or casually prompting for more information. That is, until she attempts to amuse him with some of the history, myths and legends passed on within the Elven community she was a part of.

Particularly, Lucille describes for him the lake into which her family and neighbours used to dump the winter’s hearth-ashes every spring. That illustration alone sparks questions concerning how years—generations even—of dumping wood-ash into a body of water affected the ecosystem. However, Lucille insists (honestly) that the lake’s water was clear, rather than humic, with copious amounts of aquatic plants; and also that the trees along the banks grew large and healthy, with fragrant mosses upon their bark.

For this part of her reminiscence, Solas hears her out with his usual patience and understanding. Yet when she gets to the underlying point of trekking out to a remote lake every Spring to part with hearth-ashes, he becomes cynical.

“That lake is the home of the _Hearthkeeper_ , a fey-spirit. Mythologically, they are the one who bestowed fire to the world. So, when we spill ashes into the water, we thank them for keeping us warm all winter, and make a wish for another good year.” Lucille explains to Solas.

She is not sure exactly what to expect from opening up to him about all of this. To her it is primarily just incidental talk to have whilst making their way many blocks up the street to their destination. Lucille thought Solas wished to know her better, but now his voice is doubtful and deliberate.

“And you subscribe to such superstitions?” He says, sounding as though he already anticipates a positive answer, and is disappointed by it.

“I…” She considers his almost accusatory question. “In the sense that I see the value in them, yes.”

“And what value is there to be found in shadows of a diluted past?”

This strikes a nerve like a dissonant chord. For all Lucille admires and appreciates Solas, and for all the joy she feels to have a walk with him, she immediately becomes irritated.

“The supposed _value_ , or lack thereof, is not contingent upon a game of compare-contrast with history.” She snaps.

“Nothing is divorced from its history.” He hisses.

“I know that! And I know elves today aren’t like what we once were.” Lucille asserts heatedly. “The pertinent point of any lore and culture we fieflings have—the point of _anything_ we do for ourselves—is not to play at being ancient _Elvhen_. It is to have something that is ours in a place where very little is.”

“Yet you ignore the indubitable relationship the elves have with their timeline. All in favour of making up fireside tales and sugar-coating the present.”

Lucille groans and grinds her teeth together, lacking a decent response for the time being. (Why is it that decent responses are so elusive until the one who ought to receive them is long gone?) Feeling both angry and silly rolled into one, she mumbles, “At least my people try to be optimistic,” and leaves it at that. If Solas was not also and elf, she is sure she would have spit on his shoes by now. Regardless, he is not a serf from the fiefdom provinces like she is, so how would he understand?

For the first time Lucille wonders where Solas is from, where he was born and where he spent his childhood. Does he have a place that he calls _home_? She knows from their earlier conversations with Varric that her hahren is well-travelled. Yet no specific thing about him—not his accent, nor appearance, nor mannerisms—hints at where his homeland might be. Were she not clouded by annoyance, it is certainly a line of inquiry she would follow.

Instead she backtracks, willing herself to penetrate the silence that settled over them like a thick blanket.

“Are we…almost to the clock tower?”

The heat of their previous conversation notwithstanding, Solas seems unruffled. “Look around you.” He says.

She does. In this place at which they stopped, Firelink Street’s leafy canopy opens up and unveils a clear, azure afternoon sky arcing over the wide roundabout that is the town-center. Central to this cobbled roundabout stands a behemoth of a tree whose many boughs bestow a ring of broken shade to the ground below, and whose bark creaks with each passing gust of wind.

The whole roundabout is crowded surely, but not shoulder-to-shoulder. There are shops and grocery stands and salespeople with baubles pinned to their clothes, between whom pedestrians pass, most on foot, and some riding bicycles and other contraptions. All of them are underneath the fluttering flags representing the town, province, and empire that jut from small rods mounted on building-sides.

It is a few heartbeats before Lucille at last turns to the main attraction looming to her righthand side. Her eyes trace the structure skyward, up and up and up all the way to the swallowtail-flag furling from the needlepoint at the very top. The clock-tower is the only presence able to rival that of the town-center’s tree. It is grand, a wonder even.

The freestanding clock-tower was built on a big and imposing scale with grey bricks that are similar, but several times larger than those that compose Books of Boccob. Thin, delicate sets of lancet windows with dark glass overlaid by intricate tracery don the sides of the tower, along with similarly shaped blind-arches. The upper reaches of the structure are ever so slightly thinner than the lower. Inset into these upper reaches are the four familiar clock faces, currently marking the time as 3:33. Of course, only two faces are physically possible to view at one time, but Lucille knows from experience that the tower is symmetrical in this way. Above the clock faces, crenulations ring around the tower’s top like a spiked circlet, with one such crenulation emphasized at each vertex, creating the look of four miniature stone turrets. _Perhaps they are turrets_ , as they are likely large enough to have habitable interiors. Yet from the perspective on the ground it is difficult to tell. Superior to the ring of crenulations sits a domed, stone roof, which was expertly masoned to possess many hollows, and which probably harbours a bell within. Lucille’s suspicion is promptly confirmed by Solas.

“There hangs a bell inside the dome that once rang for the hours.” Is his explanation. “No one rings it anymore, however.” He adds softly.

“Well why not?” She asks without taking her eyes off of the tower.

“Because not a single soul wants to take the job now.”

“And…why doesn’t anybody want to?”

“The last three bell-ringers died.”

Lucille turns to Solas now, her mouth round with a gasp. “Wait- Are you joking?”

“Yes, because death is something to joke about.” He jokes.

“Come on now! Really?”

“Really.”

“So you’re joking.”

“ _No_.”

“Then,” she shakily presses her fingers over her lips, lowering her voice, “they truly did die? But how?”

“No one quite knows.” He answers without really answering. “Each of the three bell-ringers was found dead around the foot of the clock-tower. They suffered falls from the bell’s dome in which they worked.”

“That’s just horrible.” Lucille whispers, and before the mood dours further, adds with a mischievous twitch of her features: “So, do you want to go inside?”

“I would. However, the tower has not been open to the public since the second bell-ringer’s incident.”

“Alright, _break inside_ then.”

Rather than recognizing the rare opportunity she offers him, Solas peers at her as if she just went daft. Well, perhaps she has, and if that is the case, then she is determined to lead him right up the garden path with her.

“It will be fun, and educational even.” She insists, trying not to outright laugh at how ridiculous it is. “And I’m willing to bet that you’ve inspected the architectural plan for this place. Don’t you just itch to see what it looks like inside?”

“And what if we’re caught?”

He voices a valid concern, but overall seems more entertained than deterred by the whole proposal.

“If we are, then whoever volunteered as town guard this month will get a lot more exercise than they bargained for.”

Solas takes this in, presses his lips together, shoulders shaking. Then he twists around and covers his face with his hand in an almost demure sort of way. It takes Lucille some time to realize that he is muffling laughter.

Endeavour as he does to downplay the signs of near gleeful amusement, when he finally collects himself and accepts the idea with a cool, “Let us try it then,” Lucille can tell that he is as captured and curious as she.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings everyone! Still here? I am thankful.
> 
> I threw a loose Sylaise reference into this chapter. Defs necessary, as theirs is my favourite vallaslin. Although I do imagine a canon universe Lucille to have Elgar’nan vallaslin.
> 
> Lucy is also the type of person who remains eloquent when angered. Oh I envy that. My vocabulary reduces itself to curses when I’m angry.
> 
> Anyway, until next time everybody, whenever that may be.
> 
> (And also, the clock-tower design here is influenced by Abberley Clock Tower in England.)


	9. bad deeds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elvish from: archiveofourown.org/users/FenxShiral
> 
> Lethallen = Blood kin, very close and dear friend (gender neutral)
> 
> Asa'ma'lin = Sister

After some slight persuasion on Lucille’s part, Solas confesses that the clock-tower possesses precisely two doors: the main front entrance that faces out towards the busy town-center, and a smaller back entrance on the east wall that faces an alley. Lucille was not mistaken when she assumed he had examined the architectural plan. Reasonably, the two opt for the alley-entrance to conduct their mischief.

Lucille crouches in front of the iron-banded wood door with her back to Solas and one eye peeping into the keyhole.

“Aha! I know you. I _know you_.” She says gleefully, presumably speaking to the inanimate locking mechanism before her.

The petite elf shucks her backpack from one shoulder and swivels it around in order to get at its contents. She retrieves a cylindrical roll of leather that is tied shut, and that at first appears to be some sort of pencil-case. Although Solas speculates that the object is not at all a pencil case, at least in the sense that it does not contain writing utensils of any kind.

He stares intently as Lucille unties the knot holding the leather case closed and allows the thing to unfurl over her palms. The minimal light in the alleyway catches upon an array of glinting, metal objects held within; they are strange tools of varying shapes and sizes, as well as a few skeleton keys, and a thin flashlight. She fingers the skeleton keys, perhaps mentally measuring their protruding bits, before removing one and pinching its ornate bow between her fingertips.

At this time, as if feeling his gaze upon the back of her neck, Lucille pauses and turns her head, just a little, and peeks back at him with her large, dark eyes. So Solas sends forth what he hopes is a pointed look, a silent question: _What the hell are you doing?_ He ends up entirely unsure what his expression ultimately conveys to her though, because her sole response is to wink at him— _and flippantly so!_ The older elf is grateful that his da’len promptly turned back around to face whatever task she has at hand, making her miss him grasping for words.

One wink. One wink and suddenly Solas’ brain is in a bustle…

At length he asks, “You are picking the lock, aren’t you?”

“Feck.” Lucille responds, retracting her skeleton key from the door’s keyhole. “Oh. Sorry. I’m not really _picking_ the lock. I’m bypassing its internal ward system.” She casually fills him in, replacing the skeleton key and retrieving one of the strange, metal tools from her leather case.

“That sounds like a euphemism if I ever heard one.” Says Solas. He intends the comment to be lightly chastising, as he feels oddly obligated to measure up with the title she calls him by. Any half-decent hahren would reprove delinquency, he thinks. _It is a little late for that sentiment though, is it not?_

“Well…” She begins to explain herself. “This kind of lock in the door here is called a _mortise lock_ , and the actual locking mechanism keeping it shut is what’s known as a _warded lock_. ‘Wards’ are these little, metal things in the keyhole that prevent the wrong shaped key from rotating in there. Sometimes, a good skeleton key can do the trick if the wards are simple enough, but for more complicated ones a bypass-tool is necessary.”

Solas takes in this information, intrigued and impressed by this uncanny knowledge of Lucille’s—though he remains reluctant to admit so openly.

“I had no idea that you are such…a _mischiefmaker_.” He says, sarcastic rather than chastising this time.

Lucille seems to falter with the tool she has in hand, and stills. Solas thinks he may have unintentionally insulted her, until she laughs.

Lucille just laughs and laughs until the sound of her voice is a trickle of running water and the wind blowing through hollow things. She laughs until he wishes she would turn around again, so he can see the smile that she hides behind her hands. His da’len is diligent though, so Solas settles for watching her back, and catching what he is able of her ministrations upon the locking mechanism.

After Lucille’s laughter lulls, she fully focuses on the still-locked door. Solas muses to himself whilst he serves as her impromptu lookout. He hears the screeching din of metal on metal from some neglected recess of his recollections, and his mind flashes back to memories of hanging from the sides of train-carriages, of secretly sleeping amongst cargo and awakening halfway across the countryside. What a reckless, fly-by-night life he led. He also cannot help but to remember the questionable company he kept during those days, his ‘partners in crime’ as it was.

 _They are all long gone now_. Indeed, only one person who really knew him back then maintains a connection with him to this day. Fondly, Solas thinks of scrabbling to write letters to them whenever he knew he would linger longer than a week in any one place. He was ever eager for an exchange with his penpal and dearest friend, despite the disgruntlement that caused his lover at the time. Yet how could he not be? The wise words and gentle personality of his lethallen always kept his head above the water and below the clouds.

The thoughts of his dearest friend push Solas back into the present, although not completely from reverie. His eyes sting and his stomach churns to the untimely apprehension that perhaps one day letters will be all that he has of them. And then… And then…?

_No. No, please, do not consider that._

Solas resists the dirge of despondency that threatens to drag him down. It is for the best that he staves off such mournful musings anyway. After all, now is the perfect time to actually attempt to act as an attentive lookout. For, within the span of a heartbeat, he notices a symptomatic shift in the alleyway’s atmosphere, which immediately causes goosebumps to creep down his spine. Solas instinctively hearkens to every sound, and marks any movement within his peripheral vision.

Between the noises of Lucille tinkering with the lock in the door, a stray cat rummaging through a nearby waste-bin, and the distant buzz of the town-center, Solas picks out footsteps near the mouth of the alleyway. Said footsteps unmistakably advance closer and closer, a foreboding fact bolstered by the person-shaped shadow slung up on a nearby brick wall.

Scant seconds remain to react, and Solas knows that most people would behave unkindly if they were to spot two suspicious elves lingering behind a building. Especially if one of those elves was caught mid-transgression. Most unfortunately, there exist no hiding spaces in the vicinity. _Well, on the contrary, that is not entirely true._ He hates to not warn Lucille prior to acting, but time is of the essence, and it would be foolish to risk their voices echoing in the narrow alley.

Solas takes a two-step lunge forward and all but shoves both Lucille and himself up against the door, with her back to his chest and his arms splayed to either side of the doorframe. It is an attempt to shield their bodies from view. The clock-tower’s back entrance is not exactly a stoop with an awning, but the door is indented into a shallow niche with barely enough depth for them to press into and potentially remain unseen.

Solas whispers the quietest “Shhh” near to Lucille’s Elven ear just as another voice barks from the alley’s margin.

“ _Hello_! Is anyone there?”

The two elves have no way to discern whether the owner of this voice is a town guard or a passing civilian. All that they can do is stand stock still whilst heavy and purposed footfalls stalk into the alleyway.

“Who’s there?” The voice questions again, more wilfully this time.

Lucille trembles like a little leaf against Solas’ chest, and he wonders exactly how terrified she might be of getting caught in spite of her cocky words earlier. He supposes that he cannot blame her; reality tends to play out differently than one’s mental predictions at any rate.

Suddenly she elbows him in the stomach, nearly causing him to splutter and give their position away. And then, with the softest of ‘clicks’, the previously-locked door swings open quick on its hinges and they both tumble inside.

They land in a graceless knot of limbs, with Lucille’s glinting, metal rogue’s tools scattered about them. With a heartpounding blitz, Lucille detangles herself from Solas and shuts the door with them inside. She flips the lock on it before sinking back against its smooth wood down to a sitting position upon the dusty floor, still slightly shaken.

“We sure dodged the huntress’ arrow back there, eh?”

Solas collects himself, stands up, and swipes dust from his trousers with both hands, creating swirls of motes. He feels the residual effects of his sympathetic nervous system’s fight-or-flight response coursing his veins, along with the relief that comes with narrowly avoiding comeuppance. Altogether, it is indeed a sweet sensation.

Even though he is quite a far cry from the rebellious man he was when he was young, he never forgot the thrill of breaking the rules. How intriguing that Lucille Lavellan of all people fetches such repressed sensitivities from him.

Nostalgic and nearly unbelieving, Solas shakes his head and mutters. “You take me back.”

“What was that?” She did not hear him.

“I mean that you are not what I expected.”

 _How odd of me to say._ In truth, Solas tries not to expect much of anything from most of everyone. It is his reactions to her that he never expected.

“Are you okay with that?” Is all she asks in return.

“Yes.”

_______

After they get their bearings, and after Lucille counts her stars, she and Solas slowly start to gather her scattered tools, slipping them back into their leather case. Lucille could not feel more relieved that no prying eyes spied them entering the off-limits clock-tower, even if she tried. In addition to this, the adventure of doing something they are not supposed to do alights her senses. She feels alive—electric, just as Cole’s drawing on her bike helmet might suggest.

“Aren’t ya glad I work well under pressure?” She asks Solas as she replaces the last tool into its place within the case and returns that to her backpack.

In all honesty, it had been a significant amount of time since Lucille last jimmied a lock. She speaks with confidence, but internally remains astounded that she managed to bypass the wards and open the damn thing during the tense moment they were nearly caught. Although, it was tense for her for all the wrong reasons. Personally, whilst she was tucked away between Solas and that blasted door, she was more concerned with the possibility of fainting from sheer excitement at their close proximity than with being captured by the town guard. Embarrassingly enough, her secondmost concern at the time was the state of her knickers— _what’s a girl to do?_ And thirdmost: being captured by the town guard (of course).

“Why yes,” Solas answers her. “I am now aware that I can be a harsher teacher for you.” He jests, smirking.

“Nooo—” She protests with an exaggerated head-shake, waving her hands erratically. “Don’t be that kind of hahren.”

“Worry not. I am merely impressed with how you applied your magic to the door.”

“Oh-ho, you like my craft I see.” Lucille wiggles her eyebrows at him. “I’m guessing your favourite part was when I elbow-checked you like a dunce?”

“But of course.” Solas mirrors her playful banter. “And the grace with which you handled your tools was but a pleasing side-benefit.”

“So you’re suggesting that I’m graceful?”

“No, I am declaring it. It was not a subject for debate.”

_______

Solas does not have a clue what he is doing.

What he has even less of a clue about is why he does not care, that he does not, have a clue what he is doing.

_______

The westering sun pierces glimmering columns of light through the clock-tower’s lancet windows, illuminating the dust-motes swimming in the building, and shining upon the spindly spiral-staircase leading up to the top. The windowglass that appeared dark from the outside now casts a spectrum of fiery colours upon everything within. Coloured light catches on Lucille’s long hair, and makes Solas’ pale eyes appear purple, then green.

The pair climbs the staircase, ascending round and round and round. About a third of the way up, Lucille suggests sliding all the way down the railing—“It looks like half of a DNA!”—to which Solas replies that it would likely kill her—“No, I am not morbid, one must be logical”.

By the halfway mark, Lucille realizes that they will have an easier time stepping side-by-side if she takes the inside of the stair-spiral and Solas takes the outside. So they switch places, and it is much easier for Lucille’s shorter legs to keep up with her companion’s longer ones after that.

“How did you learn to open locks, da’len?” Solas inquires as they pass a multi-coloured window that silhouettes his form. “I do doubt it was your parents who taught you.”

“My good sir, are you asking a lady how she acquired the skill of breaking and entering? How _discourteous_!”

“Is it a secret you wish to keep?”

She nibbles her thumbnail. “Maybe.”

“Suit yourself.”

“Agh! You’re no fun.” She flaps her hands at the nuisance of his apparent indifference.

“Then you are willing to tell me?”

“Only if you really wanna know.”

“Why else would I ask?” Is his rhetorical response.

“A fair point.” Lucille accedes. “If you _must_ know, I learned from my oldest brother. He used to take the twins and me to abandoned houses and places like that when we had a lot of free time. Most of them were locked, so…” She cocks her head back and forth and makes a noncommittal gesture with her hands. “We found ways in! Simple really.”

“Ah, a penchant for mischief-making runs in your blood, it would seem.” Observes Solas with a straight face.

“It was not all about mischief.” Denies Lucille. “Yeah, some of the time we did it for sheer curiosity, but other times it was to take tools, clothes, or food. That stuff just goes to waste in abandoned places like that, or worse, to _nobles_.”

Saying this out loud to another person for the first time highlights the strangeness of it. Sneaking into forsaken locations back at home had been a secret between Lucille and her three siblings. Their parents probably knew— _how could they not?_ —but they never brought it up. Nobody ever told a soul about it. Until now. And Solas does not respond with words at first, only with a flicker of knowing eyes and with silent thoughts.

Lucille thinks about it too, as they continue about their dizzying way up the spindly spiral-staircase. She wonders why exactly there were so many uninhabited houses back in her home province. A significant number of these places were left with all of their domestic appurtenances intact, as though the dwellers simply vanished, bringing along next to none of their belongings.

Today Lucille is too old to fall for Frederic’s explanation anymore. ‘ _The people just moved away,_ asa’ma’lin _. Don’t concern your little head with it too much._ ’ Now that the secret is out, to Solas at least, it is laughable that she ever swallowed such a lighthearted lie at all. Why is it that the problems of her homeland are more evident only after she no longer lives there?

How did she not recognize the breakdown of healthy society that was all around her? How did she not see something wrong in the derelict educational center she attended, or in the reason she had to stop going? How did she not understand that the food shortages her community faced nearly every winter were due to the greed of the aristocracy? How did she not know to blame her fiefdom’s lord for failing to provide necessary goods like medicine? How did she not become suspicious of the thinly veiled lies and false explanations she was given when she asked questions about such topics? Perhaps somehow, in the back of her mind she always knew, and like so many others did not want to acknowledge it.

Lucille does not blame her family; they always did what they thought best and still struggled anyway. Yet she suddenly and keenly wishes she possessed more perspective in the past. Perhaps she could have done something…

“I see.” Solas breaks the silence. “You did what you had to do.”

“Yeah…”

They speak no more of the topic after that, which Lucille is fine with. _I’d much rather concentrate on enjoying the clock-tower anyway._ For a while the two elves continue to climb stairs without conversing, the only noises their footsteps echoing down the hollow column. Then, as they ascend the last few dozen steps, Solas shares some odd bits of town history with her.

“There is another name for this place.” He tells her. “Ash Tower.”

“Huh. I didn’t think it had a name-name.” Lucille admits. “Everyone I’ve heard just says ‘the tower’ or whatever.”

“ _Ash Tower_ is outdated now, but it was first called such by the construction team who renovated the ruined building and installed the clockwork.” Here he stops walking briefly, to gesture over the stairs’ railing to the ground floor. “Because decades ago when it was reclaimed, the bottom of this place was filled with ashes, and a fire-iron for a bonfire.”

“Sounds like squatters lived in here.” Chimes Lucille. “Somebody who was on the run,” she continues jovially. “…because they were convicted…of a crime!” She nods triumphantly at her (lack of) storytelling abilities.

This earns an eye-roll from Solas that is accompanied by a vexed twitch of his full lips. Yet Lucille remains undeterred. She goes on joking and making up rhymes and expressing her good mood the rest of the way up the winding flight.

Finally the spiralling staircase resolves itself into the flat floor of a sturdy, wooden platform. It is immediately apparent that they are located within the room where all of the time-keeping of the tower occurs. The walls around them are chiefly comprised of circular panes of frosted glass that are the now-backward clock faces. Hazy white light passes through the frosted glass, causing the whole area to glow with gentle illumination. Now that they are right next to them, it is easy to feel awed at how large the four faces really are. Their diameter is certainly more than double Solas’ height, a comparison aided by his standing in front of one with his hands clasped behind his back. The clock hands also, _why, the one counting the hours is as wide as a person!_

Located in the center of the room that Solas and Lucille found themselves in is the mass of clockwork that is the beating heart of this place. It provides both the power and the metronome-like rhythm of _tick-tock tick-tock tick-tock_ that echoes throughout the area. At a glance the clockwork is a confusing tangle of slow-moving rods, and gears, and levers, and odd-shaped parts. Yet the more Lucille inspects it, the more she remembers from the lucky opportunities she had to deconstruct and tinker with various clocks in the past as a hobby.

“Look here! Look here!” Lucille is nearly jumping up and down as she enthusiastically gestures at a large set of interconnected rods and gears. “This is the _gear-train_ , and these wheels and pinions that’re mounted on these axels do the job of transmitting power in a way that times hours, minutes, and seconds for the clock.” She then points to the gear at the very top of the ascending rungs of the gear-train. “And- And that there is the _escape wheel_! See how it’s going ‘tick-tock’ for the seconds?”

“How fascinating,” says Solas, who returned to Lucille’s side for a closer look at the mechanism. “I have fixed a few timepieces in the past...”

“Oh you probably already know this stuff then.”

“No, please continue. The timepieces I worked with were not like this.”

“The ones I worked with weren’t exactly either.” She discloses. “But this is basically a bigger version of what I have experience with, so, it’s close enough. I’ll tell you what I know.”

Lucille jumps at the chance to ramble about something she is interested in. Solas’ avidity for the topic is obvious in the way that he studiously listens and affixes his piercing gaze to every part of the clock Lucille discusses. So she proceeds to tell him all about the clock’s weights, and the pendulum, and the various rods and cogs and what they all do. He is familiar with most of the concepts and terms in one way or another, and the ones he is not he asks questions about. This all delights Lucille; she is gleeful at their role-reversal and the chance to teach him something hands-on. _Perhaps he’d be willing to do some electrical stuff with me sometime_.

“…and these here make up an important part of the clock’s indicating mechanism.” Lucille motions to each of the four rods radiating out from the mass of clockwork to the central point of each respective clock-face. “They connect to these cogs that move the minute and hour hands and—”

A low grumbling sound silences her, and the sticky sensation of embarrassment tickles her throat and cheeks as she realizes where the sound emanated from.

“You must be hungry. My apologies, da’len, I did not notice how much time has passed, even here of all places. Perhaps we should end our excursion so you can have a meal.” Solas proposes whilst Lucille clears her head of the mild mortification she just experienced.

“No, no, I’m alright.” She immediately declines when she finds her voice. She feels resolutely reluctant to end their precious time together, no matter how hungry she gets. “Besides, I came prepared.”

Lucille removes her canvas backpack from her narrow shoulders and rifles through its contents until she recovers a slightly bruised, but pleasantly green pear.

“Want one?” She offers. “I have two.”

“No, thank you.” He refuses.

They sit side by side upon the dusty, mahogany floorboards in front of one of the massive clock-faces as Lucille eats the fruit. She hoped that their discussions and story-sharing might continue, but instead she finds herself eating in relative silence, with only the monotonous _tick-tock_ of clockwork in the background. More pressingly, Solas is staring at her. She does not look directly at him, but can tell that his gaze is turned on her from the corner of her eye. Abashed, and assuming that he perhaps scrutinizes the messy way she chows down on her fruit, Lucille hurries to palm juice from her chin and lips and carries on with an added dose of table etiquette.

As she nears the core of the pear, Solas softly clears his throat, and she readily stops eating and turns her head to face him, craving an end to the quiet. Solas’ countenance is sombre, and even sitting cross-legged upon the floor he has stiff shoulders and a rigid spine, flexing his long fingers over his kneecaps. Within the intimate amount of space between them, Lucille can secretly appreciate that his eyes are laced with delicate lashes. Perhaps the perfect kind with which to give butterfly kisses. Nope, she _cannot_ allow her imagination to prance away right now though, especially not when Solas seems ready to regale her with bad news.

He drags the moment out by inhaling a deep breath through his nose. “Da’len…” he begins at last, only to defer once more.

The next word that Solas utters, however, almost causes her heart to unduly stop beating.

“Lucille.”

The lilt of her name upon his tongue transforms all of her joints into jelly. She thinks she might want to lie down for a few minutes. She thinks she could die happy after today. She also thinks she is a bit of a nutter for allowing him to have this effect on her.

“I thought about what you said earlier today…” He continues.

For some reason she instantly thinks back to the argument that they had during the walk here, and her stomach sinks. _–He haaates you!_ An unwelcome mind-foil screeches, but she manages to push it to the sidelines of her conscious and nod numbly.

“You expressed an interest in my friendship.”

 _Oh. Oh fuck. That’s what he means!_ This clarification does nothing to stall the freefalling sensation that her internal organs are experiencing however.

“I’ve not made anything other than acquaintances in a long while.” At this, Solas temporarily glances away and surveys the clock-hands through the frosted-glass next to them. He appears perturbed, and perhaps even vulnerable. ( _But no, that can’t be it, can it?_ ) When he finds her eyes again, her hahren looks even more aloof and rigid than before.

“When I consider the nature of friendship, it is clear that I am a poor choice for such a relationship.” He tells her all in one breath.

Curdling disappointment and shame as cold as stone beset Lucille as she processes these words. Now it is her turn to avert her eyes from him. She tries to think reasonably like she told herself that she would, even in the wake of his rejection. Yet it is futile. A tide of negative thoughts was always waiting to engulf her senses no matter how she steeled herself to deal with them. She wants to say something, anything, but her vocal cords refuse to cooperate. Instead, Solas goes on.

“Nevertheless we can be friends if you would like. For you I wish to try my best.”

Solas’ voice is calm and rhythmic. Even so, it takes some seconds for the whole ball of wax to melt down into understanding. When it does, without prelude, Lucille lurches forward and throws her arms around Solas, dropping her pear core and encircling him in an enthusiastic hug. Holding him this close, she can feel the lean muscles of his shoulders and the hard protrusions of his clavicles. She can even sense his warmth, his scent, and the faint and frantic thudding of his heart. _Oh! Frantic! That’s not good._ Lucille hastily releases him from her grasp and moves back into a kneeling position, apprehensive that she might have accidentally discomforted him with the unexpected physical contact.

“G-gosh. Ir abelas, hahren.” She stutters while pressing her fingers against her burning cheeks. “I was just so incredibly happy hearing you wish to be friends, and- and I really should have asked before hugging you.”

He shakes his head, sending off her worry. “It is alright. Your sentiments are kind.” And adds softly, “I am happy, too.”

In contrast to his last few words, Solas narrows his eyes and frowns. Without a warning or an explanation, he rises and paces towards the gap in the floor where the staircase begins its descent. Lucille makes a move to question his behaviour when she catches a small sound, it is far off, and without a doubt what Solas just hearkened to.

_Click- Click- Ka-chuk!_

When Solas turns back to her, although he appears undisturbed, the disquiet in the air is obvious. He does not need to tell her that someone is unlocking the door downstairs.

Lucille gets to her feet and anxiously looks this way and that way, scanning the room. Solas, too, searches around. No furniture and no rugs nor tapestries are present, and it is no use hiding behind the mass of mechanical clockwork. At each vertex of the room are sets of steep and narrow stairs that lead to the turrets that they saw from outside. They are all dead-ends, unfortunately. There also is a hatch in the ceiling above that must open up to the bell within the stone dome. There may or may not be a hiding place up there. However, the room they are in lacks a ladder to reach the hatch, and the roof also most likely is a dead-end.

“What do we do? What do we do?” Hisses Lucille, partially to Solas and partially to herself, as the door downstairs creaks open with a whine of its hinges.

Solas’ forehead is furrowed with agitation. He taps his foot a few times. “We must leave the way we arrived. There is not another option.”

“ _Fenedhis…!_ ” She swears through clenched teeth. She squares her shoulders dutifully though. This is her fault, and Solas is right. They must reach the backdoor again. It is the only way out.

“I know you’re up there!” A terse voice calls from below. “Come down and I’ll grant you a chance to explain yourself.”

The voice sounds pissed. This person might even be able to wilt flowers by shouting at them. Lucille is sure that no amount of _explaining_ will appease whoever is currently starting to climb the spiral stair, even if Solas and she are actually given a chance.

Lucille opens up her backpack and claws through its contents like she is digging a hole to hide in.

“We need... _Yes_!”

She yanks out a flannel button-front shirt, scattering a few loose coins across the floor in her rush. Digging deeper, she also manages to salvage a crumpled hat from the very bottom of the backpack; this she tosses in Solas’ direction.

“Put that on. If we’re gonna run right past them, then we’ll need to obscure ourselves at least a little.” She instructs as she ties the flannel shirt around her head, hiding her ears and hair.

Solas says nothing, but nods and dons the hat, pulling it low over his eyes. Lucille stifles untimely laughter. She owned that hat since childhood. It is a bit worn out now, but maintains a vivid yellow hue, and has an embroidery of a cute duck on the front. Needless to say, Solas looks a little out of place wearing it.

He arches an eyebrow at her and folds his arms. “Is there something funny about what I’m wearing?” He teases.

“Hell yeah,” she teases in return. “You look… I guess ‘eccentric’ is the most courteous word to use.”

“And how about if you were to be most _discourteous_ to me?” He asks playfully.

“It’s no use hiding!” Interrupts the terse voice, reminding the pair of the impending threat. “I promise I will find you!”

“Now is as good a time as any to make our escape.” Whispers Solas. “Are you ready?”

“Yes. I’ll go first.” Lucille whispers back. “Please, stay close behind me, hahren.”

“I shall.”

With that, they commence their great escape. They hit the ground running, their feet pounding down the coil of stairs at a breakneck speed. Lucille’s mind is racing on an adrenaline high; she cannot believe that they are _actually_ doing this. Several times she misses a step, and fears that she shall fall down the flight to her doom, but she somehow keeps her pace and footing in spite of everything. Solas follows close behind as he said he would, keeping up but releasing panting breaths. She hates to have brought him into harm’s way by coming up here, and hopes that he will forgive her for it. What if he loses his teaching job at the school because of this foolhardy escapade? He must think her so irresponsible and unscrupulous now. Then again, he did seem excited about breaking the rules in a way.

All that is left to do now is totally, absolutely not get apprehended for this.

As the two elves round another curve in the spiral staircase, their pursuer comes into view. (Is anybody really a pursuer when both parties are running directly at one another though?) At first, the human wearing the official-looking uniform seems shocked, but that passes and is replaced by an irate mien.

The town guard—they must be a town guard to wear such a starchy uniform—drops into a goalie-like stance. They are not nearly broad enough to cover the whole stairway, but the intimidation factor nearly causes Lucille to hesitate. Any hesitation will damn Solas and her both though, so she presses onward, searching for an opening.

_If an opening cannot be found, make one._

Lucille sprints faster and hugs the outer edge of the spiral close enough to reveal her intent, but not so close as to overdramatize it. Her body-language implies that she will attempt to dodge by the guard’s right side.

Predictably, the guard leans over to cover the side Lucille approaches on. Perfect.

At the final instant, when Lucille is easily an arm’s length away from them, she lunges to the opposite side of the stairway left unoccupied by the dumbstruck guard. In doing so, she carelessly bangs her forearm hard against the stairs’ railing, but again she presses onward, blinking back her tears of pain. Behind her, she hears Solas succeed as well in passing by their pursuer, who curses at having lost their chance to catch two nasty burglars in the clock-tower.

Fortunately, the guard Lucille and Solas just left in the dust neglected to close the backdoor, so they need not bother with opening it in their mad dash to get out. Once they are back outside in the alleyway, she doubles over with her palms supported on her knees, catching her breath.

“I thought I would fall.” She wheezes. “I thought we were done for.”

Solas, who remains strangely unfatigued, grabs her arm and hoists her upright. “Do not relax yet. We must leave this place.”

Of course, their pursuer is probably not far behind them. Lucille allows herself to be led by Solas from the alley back into the town-center.

Throngs of people await them. The town-center is markedly more crowded now than it was when they initially arrived. Lucille feels an inkling of reluctance to join the crowds, particularly in the densest area around the town-center’s gigantic tree. Yet that is exactly where Solas is leading them. _What was that saying about hiding a tree in a forest?_

The deeper into the crowd that they go, the more difficult it becomes to keep track of Solas; and Lucille’s short stature is not helping her in any way whatsoever at this point. If she can only keep her yellow duck-hat in sight…

“Ouch!” She stumbles slightly as someone shoves by.

Lucille grits her teeth and huffs indignantly. Sure it is crowded, but that does not mean everybody gets a free pass to push one another. _This is ridiculous! People suck! I ought to… I ought to… Probably calm down._ She slumps her shoulders and sighs, catching herself becoming awfully angry over such a small thing. There are far bigger things to concentrate on. Such as that Solas is nowhere to be found.

“Oh how fekking peachy.” She grumbles, tugging the flannel shirt from her head and tying it around her waist.

Inspecting the individuals nearby her, Lucille sees a yellow backpack, yellow rain-boots, and a yellow windbreaker, but no yellow hats. Fretful now, she slips in between people loitering with plastic cups in hand, giggling groups of teenagers, and parents with children sat upon their shoulders. It seems as though the bloody congregation is never ending, but she makes it to the edge at last.

More accurately, Lucille makes it to the forefront, and to the source of all of the hubbub.

Underneath the tree are an assortment of peculiar characters wearing gaudy costumes and painted masks. One of them has dozens of bells sewn into their pants, creating a cacophony of jingles with every step, and another has fringes of colorful ribbons trailing from their hood and sleeves. Street performers, Lucille catches on. She folds her arms and frowns at them, determined to stay upset about losing Solas. Yet the longer she lingers watching the flashy performers dance, juggle, and mime through improv acts, the less she can contain the grin tugging at her lips. It is not long before she laughs and claps with the rest of the crowd.

_______

At the edge of the cobbled roundabout, far away from the people and the clamour and the merriment, Solas sinks down onto a wrought-iron bench. He regrets losing Lucille within whatever nonsense currently clogs the town-center, but after combing the crowds for her with no success, he resigned and reassured himself that she is capable of finding her own way around. This reassurance does not deter him from sitting at the sidelines and scowling at the damnable gathering that separated them though. Of all the things to happen! She can handle herself, but that fact does not absolve him of fault for essentially ditching her. Less haste could have been made in escaping through the crowd. Maybe he should have kept his hold on her arm. Certainly there is _something_ he should have done to prevent this unfavourable occurrence. It definitely dropped a damper atop his evening, loath as he is to admit it.

Solas did not get the chance to inquire after Lucille’s wellbeing consequent to their flight from the tower. Nor did he get the chance to ask her for her thoughts concerning their adventure, or their newfound friendship. He even mulled back and forth over the idea of walking her home so that he might speak with her longer without keeping her out on the town too late. That would have been the friendly thing to do, would it not have?

Their friendship. Solas winnows his thoughts regarding that subject for the umpteenth time. A relationship of such a nature is a risky affair; opening oneself in any way to another person is always risky. Solas was never a stranger to risks, but one of this variety is something he has not dabbled with much at all. He always kept to himself in the past. He had experiences with professional relationships, forced cooperation, parasitic attachments, passing fancies, many acquaintances, and one trusted penpal, but not really with just an authentic friendship.

Solas was not lying when he told Lucille that he has not made a friend in a long while, nor was he lying when he told her that he would not make a good friend. He said he will try his best. He _must_ try his best for her because he does not wish to disappoint her. No, he never wants to see her expression glazed with disappointment. Never ever, never ever.

_But why…? Why do I care so much?_

Solas can no longer blame his fascination with her on insomnia-induced impulsivity. Somewhere along the line it all became genuine, became real.

 _And what is_ real _?_

_Does it matter?_

_I feel, therefore I want to be._

_Stop this._ Solas forces the physical world to return to the foreground, and reminds himself of where he is. He takes a moment to feel the cold iron he sits upon, to smell the steam wafting from a nearby restaurant, to stare at leaves being played with by the wind.

“ _Tell the moon don’t tell the marcher. Tell the moon don’t tell the marcher._ ”

Solas startles at the hushed sound of a whisper at his side. It is close enough to be a moth alighted on his shoulder, if moths could speak. He slowly turns to look towards the rest of the bench, and he only sees a fluffy, lavender cloud consuming most of his field of vision.

“ _Tell the moon dog tell the march hare. Tell the moon dog tell the march hare._ ”

“I know that song as well,” is the only thing that Solas can think to say to the lavender cloud.

“Harmonic, poetic, nostalgic.” Replies the cloud. “Music you heard while travelling, far away from here.”

Solas winces and then glares. “How… _cryptic_ of you.”

“Ahh-” The cloud giggles, immune to Solas’ poor spirits. “You don’t want me to tell you that. Yes, sorry.”

The cloud clears their throat, actually seeming a bit crestfallen now. Then, the fluffy, lavender mass moves aside, revealing a human boy wearing a hat with a wide leather brim and a roughspun metal dome. Solas experiences a spell of mental vertigo as he realizes that the cloud is cotton-candy that the human is holding.

“My name is Cole,” he introduces himself, unblinkingly observing Solas. “I like your hat.”

Solas absentmindedly brushes his fingers against the silly hat that Lucille lent him.

“Me too.”

He decides to stay right there on the bench and speak with this Cole for a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! I didn’t expect this day in the life of Lucy to span so many chapters. Moving along now.
> 
> The song Cole sang is ‘We Have Heaven’ by ‘Yes’. I recommend giving it a listen if you wish. Yes is one of my favourite bands.
> 
> Anyway, can yall guess what canon class Lucille would be? I’m sure I made it fairly obvious lol.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading this story. And thank you for participating via your gracious comments, kudos, and favourites. Your attention encourages and flatters me.


	10. the runaway

Tonight was the night. Lucille’s clammy hands clenched and unclenched whilst she restlessly watched moonlit patterns dancing across the bedroom ceiling. She rolled to one of her sides, and then the other, hyper-aware of every springy creak from the old mattress underneath her. This was the time for absolute silence. Every noise that she made only prolonged the waiting period she had to endure before she could slip from her bed unnoticed. She never could sit still.

She inhaled a deep, gradual breath, and tried to ignore how uncomfortable it felt to wear cargo-pants, a long-sleeved shirt, and shoes whilst lying beneath bed-linens. Sweat started to prickle her skin, serving only to make her hands clammier, and the rest of her hotter. _Just a little longer_ , she encouraged herself. Indeed, just a little longer, and she should have been able to safely sneak around the bedroom’s three sleeping inhabitants.

After an unmarked amount of time passed, Lucille rose up ever so slowly and hoisted herself over the wooden rim of the bed-frame. Moments such as this made her curse her pick of the top bunk, but it could not be helped.

As she climbed down the bedside ladder, the snoring of her eldest sibling in the bottom bunk hitched, causing her to freeze on the rungs. Lucille looked through the semi-darkness at Frederic, her muscles tensed so stiffly that she neglected to even blink until her eyeballs stung from the air. Frederic shifted underneath his blanket and resumed his restful snores. The brief incident nearly caused Lucille to climb back into bed with her tail between her legs. Yet she acted that night or never; it had to be that night. There were no remaining days left for her to deliberate over the course her life would take.

She tiptoed her way across the room over to the sliding-window that she had pre-emptively left open early in the evening. The thin curtains billowing gently before the rectangular opening beckoned her as she crept closer.

From the darkness behind, something grabbed her. The sensation was similar to one she had experienced the first time she had ever received an electric shock by 120 volts of mains electricity. Except then, rather than an alternating-current arresting her nerves, there was a hand like a band of iron around her thin wrist.

When Lucille whirled around, alleviation awashed her. It was Marmion who had stopped her. Of everybody in her household, he was the least likely to alert anyone of her suspicious activity in the witching hours of the night.

‘ _Go back to bed_.’ Lucille mouthed, facilitating her words using specific hand motions with her free hand.

Marmion shook his head vigorously, flinging his bob of messy black hair back and forth. Then he released her wrist with a frown and reciprocated with a few hurried hand motions of his own.

_‘Goodbye, Lucille.’_

She stared at him for several heartbeats, processing.

He only wished for a proper goodbye then. It was clear in that moment that Marmion had already known that she had prepared to leave. Lucille thought she had acted with utmost secrecy when she had packed her bags and hidden them in the firewood pile outside, and when she had pumped air into her bike’s tires for the journey she would undertake. Yet if Marmion knew, Alphonse knew too, or would know soon. That was inevitable at least. The twins shared everything with each other.

Fear of the possible repercussions that would arise if her parents or eldest brother gained awareness of her plans abruptly constricted her. It is not as though they could guess where she was going to go; _she_ did not even know where she was going to go. However, the thought of her family’s sadness and anger alone frightened her. And the thought of the fiefdom lord’s census workers pursuing her somehow was absolutely terrifying.

‘Don’t tell anyone,’ Lucille hissed, the sound of her voice nearly lost in the soft drafts blowing in from the window behind her.

Marmion gazed past her, at a point on the wall, but she could tell that he had heard her. His face appeared gaunt and solemn with his dark eye-sockets, with the downward curves of his mouth and eyebrows.

For the first time in weeks, the spasmodic sense of anxiety in Lucille’s self was replaced by the pendulous weight of the immutable decision she made that day.

Weeks ago, she had been forced to choose between fetters and freedom, and for the longest time she had felt okay with fetters; going along with the wills of others had seemed like the natural thing to do. That was only until clarity had been struck like a phosphorus-sulphide match in her brain. Since then, no matter how hard she had attempted to stamp out the sudden urges and half-baked plans that orbited her thoughts, they continued calling to her. In the strangest way, it no longer had felt natural to just listen to the wills of others; her mind had become an invisible battlefield of her wants and theirs. The question back then had been _what to do about it?_

Only yesterday, the din of unnerving notions and mind-foils had settled down into two dangerous words…

_Run away._

Yes, just run away. How straightforward. She was glad she thought of it.

It was time to depart, before all of her painstakingly reinforced resolve shed from her before the eyes of her brother.

Lucille gestured at her chest with her fingers and then pointed to her temple in turn.

‘I have your heart in mind.’ She whispered.

Marmion mimicked the motions heedfully.

_‘I have your heart in mind.’_

Then Lucille left, slipping through the open window into the murky night hours like a faery fleeing before daybreak.

_______

Lucille awakens with a start to the dim indigo light of a seaside dawn.

_______

“Blast it! _Oh_ , just blast it all.” Dorian grouses as he glares daggers through Nightingale Bakery’s wide front window where Leliana’s autumn-themed decorations sit proudly displayed.

Lucille, who sits across from the disgruntled Tevinter, also has her eyes on the world outside. The dome of the sky hides behind a shroud of nimbostratus clouds that hug the earth so closely they seem at risk of being punctured by the tips of the power-line poles along the street sides. It certainly looks like impending rain.

“Welp. We can always reschedule for next week, or even the one after.” Suggests The Iron Bull from his position behind the counter, where he currently transfers fresh baked goods from piping-hot trays into the glass display-case with a pair of tongs. Cinnamon and nutmeg something, guessing by the scent.

“But it will be too _cold_ for a beach trip by then,” protests Dorian.

“We could go to an indoors place.” Cole mumbles from nearby Bull as he takes a big bite out of a glazed donut.

“Dorian, consider this: _wetsuits_.” Bull says, making a rainbow shape in the air with his oven-mit clad hands.

Dorian deadpans. “You really expect me to wear a wetsuit?”

“I’ll wear one too as a consolation for you.” Bull offers cheerfully.

Lucille snickers at the two of them as she sips from the steaming teacup in front of her, and then immediately attempts to hide her grin behind the cup’s rim.

“There isn’t any consolation that you can offer that will get me to wear a wetsuit.” Dorian flips his gaze across the table. “And you, Lucy, the fashion disaster that is the _wetsuit_ is no laughing matter.”

This only makes Lucille laugh harder, sputtering as she tries to keep tea from dribbling everywhere.

“Careful what you say,” warns Bull. “I might take it as a challenge.”

“We could go to an indoors place.” Cole suggests a second time, but even without his mouth full of glazed donut, the Tevinter and Qunari do not appear to hear him.

Dorian points an accusatory finger with a polish-lacquered nail at Bull. “I hope that’s not a threat.”

“You wound me, _kadan_. It was an offer.”

“Oh for the love of-!” Dorian rakes his hand through his dark hair.

Lucille gives Cole a sympathetic look as the two others continue their banter.

Cole tries a third time, cupping his hands around his mouth to speak louder. “Have you considered moving our ruined beach party to a place inside of doors instead? You know, indoors. Within walls. Where it won’t rain on us.”

Cole’s outburst (for Cole, anything even a little above his usual mousy vocal volume might be considered an outburst) causes any words to momentarily die on Dorian’s and The Iron Bull’s tongues. They both stare at the human boy, a little alarmed.

“It’s a superb solution.” Lucille quickly adds.

“That it is.” Another voice agrees.

They all turn to Leliana, the one who just spoke after silently sneaking in from the back hallway without anybody else noticing. “How about giving the arcade a try?” She recommends.

“That is…an _excellent idea_.” Dorian’s disappointment evaporates and he inflates with excitement. “Cole, Leliana, you’re geniuses.” He stands up, the legs of his chair dragging loudly against the floor. “I must go tell the others.”

With that, Dorian is out the door and away. Cole, Iron Bull, Leliana, and Lucille spend the rest of the cloudy morning fulfilling their regular duties at the bakery. Whilst helping customers in the shop and carrying out a couple last-minute bicycle deliveries with Cole, Lucille toys with the idea of phoning Solas to invite him to the arcade with everybody. He said that the beach outing was not really his thing, but perhaps an arcade is. Maybe.

As morning shifts to midday, Lucille lounges inside behind the wooden counter, staring at the bakery’s brightly coloured rotary-dial telephone and contemplating her little idea. Then she realizes that she does not know Solas’ phone number.

_Well there goes that plan._

Lucille sighs and rests her elbows upon the counter with her hands cupping her face.

“Why do you look lonely?”

Even though she should be accustomed to Cole’s talent of seemingly materializing from nowhere, Lucille flinches and lets out an embarrassing squeak of surprise.

The blond-haired boy shuffles his sneaker-clad feet and mutters a “Sorry”.

“Don’t worry about it.” She straightens up and makes what she hopes is a comforting expression. “Maybe I should clean my ears or something, because you’re one hell of a light-foot. And that’s a good thing, by the way.”

Cole says nothing and waits expectantly, and Lucille’s expression wavers when she comes to the conclusion that he awaits an answer to the question that he asked.

“…Do I really look lonely?” She queries, fidgeting with the hem of her polo-shirt.

“To me you do. That or disappointed.”

“Well, I’ve got no good reason to be lonely. After all, you’re with me. But maybe I’m a little disappointed.”

“Why?”

Lucille looks over at the hemlock grandfather clock set up against the wall, thankful that Cole is not big on maintained eye-contact. “So, there’s someone I want to invite to the arcade with us,” she begins, “…but I don’t have their phone number. I don’t even know where they live. I guess I know where they work, but it’d be weird if I just showed up there unannounced. So I have no way of inviting them, which is…disappointing.” She finishes explaining with another sigh. “It’ll still be fun to go with everybody else though, don’t get me wrong.”

Cole taps the side of his jaw with his middle and index fingers, thinking.

“Perhaps you could send this someone a message with one of the crows?”

This suggestion instantly perks Lucille up. “You think so?”

“It might work. Here,” Cole hands her a discarded piece of a bagel from a dish by the sink. “They’ll appreciate that.”

“I hope you mean the crows, Cole.” She warns as she takes the bagel.

“You get to decide that.”

“Oh my gosh.”

So Lucille scrawls a short note to Solas on some spare receipt-paper, inviting him to the arcade and detailing the appropriate time and location. She is proud to say that she wrote the entire thing herself despite her poor penmanship. Although she did ask Cole for spelling help no less than three times.

“Finished!” She announces triumphantly as she carefully rolls up the note like a small scroll. “And you’re sure that the crows will know where Saint Priscilla’s School of Art is?”

“I’m never one hundred percent sure of anything.” Cole replies. “But I will say that I’m fallibly sure.”

“ _Fallibly sure_? That’s an oxymoron but it’ll have ‘ta be good enough.” She halfway opens the bakery’s flyer-plastered front door to go out, and then turns around. “Thank you so much for everything, Cole.”

“You’re welcome.” He smiles beneath his shaggy fringe of hair.

Lucille exits, the door’s bell tinkling, and rounds the building on the west side, passing the bike rack as she hurries through the narrow alleyway to get to the backyard. The familiar leafless and lichen-covered tree awaits, its crooked branches heavy with roosting crows. The sight of so many inky-black birds silhouetted there against the rain-leaden clouds tugs at threads of apprehension in Lucille’s heart. She tries not to think of each crow as some poor person who pissed off the universe by lying too often. These crows seem to have it good though, with Leliana caring for them. Yet still, thoughts of old faerytales and rhymes flit through her head while she crumbles the bagel Cole gave to her and scatters it over a rusty garden table that sits in the dirt at the base of the tree trunk.

Lucille waits, staring up at the old tree above her. Some of the crows resting up there rustle their feathers and tilt their heads, watching intently. Although a few of the birds shift from foot to foot upon their perches or hop to lower branches, none of them seem committed to coming down to the table.

A bolt of lightning briefly cuts the sky in twain and illuminates the surrounding clouds an eerie pale purple. Lucille shudders and rubs her palms up and down her arms, wishing she had the foresight to wear a sweater under her work shirt today as Cole did. She loosens her hair from its elastic and it falls over her shoulders, skimming down to her forearms. _This’ll have to be warm enough for now._

Quick as a wink, one crow glides down to the table, and then another, and another. It is not long before about a half dozen of the birds are gobbling down every last crumb of the bagel. This marks the first Battle of The Wills won. _Lucy: one, crows: zero._

As the gaggle of crows swallow the last bits of food and start to settle, Lucille tentatively reaches out to stroke the one nearest to her. Fast to react, many pairs of beady eyes twitch to look at her before she reaches any of their soft down. It is difficult to project an emotion upon any of the animals. Perhaps they are fearful, or inquisitive, or eager for more scraps.

Lucille extends her fingers further, and barely brushes the glossy wing of one crow. In her other hand is the curled up note she wrote for Solas.

“Please, dear crow, would you take this to –”

With a flurry of flapping wings and feathers, all of the crows are gone, returned back above to the barren tree branches.

“…to the art school.” She finishes defeatedly, dropping her hands to her sides and hanging her head.

“Tricksy things, aren’t they?”

“Leliana,” Lucille turns, shifting the hand that holds the undelivered note behind her back guiltily. “Excuse me for loafing off back here, I was just…” She trails off, struggling to come up with any excuses on the spot.

“Attempting to coax the crows into doing you a favour?” Leliana’s lips turn up with a witting smirk.

Lucille is grateful that her manager is apparently not annoyed at her for slinking around the backyard during work hours.

“Yeah.” She toes the dirt underfoot with her shoe. “It didn’t work out too well.”

“And who is your message for?”

Lucille’s cheeks and ears prickle with a blush. Leliana cut right to the chase. _Of course she would ask that. Play it cool._

“Just…a friend.” She feels a warmth from the utterance of the new designation she can now use for him, although it might also be chagrin burning beneath her ribs. “It’s a shame they won’t receive it though.”

“Hey now,” Leliana approaches and lightly lays a hand on Lucille’s shoulder. “Don’t be too discouraged by the crows’ behaviour. They trust you. They’re probably only reluctant to fly because of the storm that’s coming.”

“Oh, right.” She gives the overcast sky a sidelong glance, silently admonishing herself for not considering this simple fact before.

Leliana withdraws her hand, but not her sharp stare. The longer those blue-green eyes gaze at her, the more Lucille feels like cellophane. The human woman has always been amicable towards her, yes, but her serrated acuity thwarts Lucille’s composure. It is made obvious that she is hiding something.

“Ah, so, anyway, I, um,” Lucille babbles.

“Lavellan.”

“I really oughtta be getting back to work. Yes, that’s exactly what I should do. So, I’ll just,” she starts to sidle away. “I’ll just go back inside.”

“ _Lavellan_.”

Lucille stops in her tracks.

Leliana has an impish look. “Say, the intended recipient of your message isn’t more than ‘just a friend’, are they?”

The young elf thinks she might just combust on the spot. She wants a redo, a redo in order to have never written a silly note at all.

“ _No!_ ” She denies perhaps a bit too intensely. “No, no ,no. Him and me? That totally wouldn’t happen.”

“Pardon me,” she apologizes without really sounding sorry. “I may’ve assumed too much there, with the way that you’re blushing.”

Lucille blushes harder than she thought possible. All of her blasted blood is in her head now, surely. And Leliana definitely will pick up on her crush due to her appalling job of hiding it.

“Anyway, your friend must be someone I know.” Leliana goes on, as if oblivious to Lucille’s embarrassment. “Especially in this small town. What’s his name?”

“Solas.” Lucille manages to say. “I’m not so sure he’s lived around here long though.”

“Aha!” Leliana gasps with affirmation, startling a few crows in the branches above. “I haven’t formally met him, but my friend, Josephine, speaks highly of him. They work together you see.”

Josephine. The name teases Lucille’s memory. She knows it from some time before, but cannot recall how.

“Josephine, Josephine…” She repeats, endeavouring to spark her memory. “She’s, the one whose packet I gave to you a while back.”

“Yes,” confirms Leliana. “Josie and I have known each other for a long, long time.”

“How did you both meet? She works at the art school, right? What does she do?” Curiosity over this person supersedes her embarrassment.

Leliana giggles, and Lucille bites her lower lip, feeling like a bit of a motormouth, but expectation still thrums through her all the same.

“I’ll tell you some things, but the best parts I’ll reserve for Josie to tell herself.”

The two women return inside to work, and Leliana tells Lucille some things about this Josephine, answering most of her questions. Lucille learns that she teaches photography at the art school, and that she loves to photograph people from all walks of life. Like many of the individuals she met and befriended in Volvyn so far, Josephine has travelled in her lifetime. She even was a part of a distinguished theatre troupe in the past, before eventually finding her true calling in the art of photography.

The information that Leliana gives satisfies Lucille’s curiosity for the most part. There is yet one thing that she wishes to know, but fears to ask about. That is, _what were the contents of Josephine’s mysterious manila envelope_? The one which she only recently delivered to Leliana. She did not forget how this affected her, how for a moment when she held the envelope out to her, the very air turned to ice and her eyes grew so wide. Her manager played it off well, but the whole event remains puzzling in Lucille’s mind. How could she let it go? Especially after what Cole told her when her shift ended:

‘ _You might ask her about it. With you she will not be angry…_ ’

Cole is insightful, but can what he said really be accurate? Will Leliana really not be angry when she asks? _There is one good way to go about this. I must inquire politely, delicately, if I am to bother at all_. That settles it. Lucille wants to know about this and she wants to know today if at all possible. Perhaps she might even be able to help Leliana somehow if there truly is something that troubles her. It is the least she can do after all of the aid and kindness Leliana gave her.

Later on, when Cole and The Iron Bull are working on the ground-floor upstairs, and Leliana and Lucille work downstairs in the warmth of the baking basement, she finally cracks the question.

“What was in that envelope I delivered to you?” She blurts out over the steaming tray of palmier cookies clamped between her oven-mits.

It is not polite or delicate at all. Somehow her intention to handle the broaching of the topic tactfully did not transfer to her actions in quite the manner that she planned. _Wow. Way to go, Lucy._

Leliana’s mien hardens. “I’d hate to tell you,” she says, poking at the heat of their stone oven with a pizza-peel spatula.

“I’m sorry. I probably shouldn’t’ve…”

“But I don’t mind showing you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tenth chapter and one year since I began writing this fanfic. Thank you for being here everyone.
> 
> The signing Lucille and Marmion use is not an official sign language, but a rudimentary method of signing that the twins and her made for use between themselves, as the place they live in does not offer the resources they require to learn. Unlike most other themes in this story, I don't have personal experience with official sign languages. I do have spells of muteness when I shutdown/meltdown/etc, so I do have experience with that and the noises and gestures I personally use to communicate when I cannot speak. That said, feel free to let me know if I ought to revise or work on my writing concerning the signing or how it is handled. I read some resources regarding it before I published this, but as an outsider to sign language culture, I know that there will always be more for me to learn.


	11. distortion and reverb

Little raindrops divide and converge as they dribble down the windowpanes in Leliana’s house above the bakery. Lucille traces their damp trails through the glass with her fingertips as Leliana shuffles around within another room of the house. Whilst she waits, the pitter-patter of the rain rises into a surge of white-noise, broken by rumbles of thunder and buffets of wind rattling the house. Lucille makes sure to watch for lightning, ever fascinated by its forked and effulgent paths that slice the sky.

At last Leliana emerges from what Lucille guesses might be her bedroom, with the manila envelope in hand. She unceremoniously dumps the contents of it onto the coffee table between the couch and television as Lucille approaches.

“These are,” she starts to say. “Well, see for yourself.”

The coffee table is covered with rectangular papers—no, _photographs_ that Lucille speculates were captured by none other than Josephine. This is a speculation that Leliana confirms while Lucille kneels upon the fluffy rug underfoot and gingerly shifts the photos around to get a better look at them. Right away she feels self-conscious of the fingerprints she shall inevitably leave upon their glossy surfaces, but, as usual her curiosity outweighs any concern.

Plenty of the photographs are somewhat dark, with artistic streaks of neon pink, green, and blue. The dark photos are characterized by dramatic cones of light, many shadowed hands and arms obscuring the camera’s field of vision, motion blur, and lens flares. In contrast to these indistinct captures are closer photos of a stage with grungy, velvet theatre-drapes and extension cords snaking around in every which way. This stage with its scruffy peripherals and bright, colorful lights creates the somewhat frowzy backdrop for a band of three performers who play instruments for the chaotic crowd. The band contains one drummer, one bass guitarist, and one guitarist. Funnily enough, Lucille recognizes two of them.

On the right side of the stage stands a person that Lucille instantly identifies as Leliana, even though the various decorative lights bathe her with technicolors in most of the captures. She holds an electric six-string guitar that is thrust up at a sharp angle, her right hand a blur in mid-strum. Her eyes and teeth flash, and her mouth is open wide with ardent notes of song. The red bob of hair that Lucille is used to seeing so neat and smooth is a mess of gelled spikes with a deep side-part in these photos. Another thing that differs from usual is her outfit. Typically, Lucille sees her manager wearing work-trousers or ankle-length skirts, but the clothing captured here is a halter-dress that is hiked up haphazardly on one side to reveal a garter-belt that clasps onto sheer stockings. In some pictures, where the lighting hits her just right, Lucille can make out tangled swirls of tattoo ink underneath Leliana’s left stocking; it is a tattoo of waves, or perhaps vines, she cannot be certain.

The second person upon the stage that Lucille recognizes gives her a small shock. The drummer all the way on the left side of the raised platform captures her gaze and holds it. She has short, black hair, rounded ears with many piercings, dramatic eye makeup, and she wears fingerless leather gloves over hands that grip chipped drumsticks. She looks mighty different from the last time Lucille encountered her, but this human woman is unmistakeably the town guard who chased Solas and her from the clock-tower. She decides against giving any mention of this fact to Leliana right now.

“I had this feeling that your talents extended beyond baking and birds.” Lucille tells her, and then peels her eyes away from the photographs long enough to ask, “So who’re your bandmates?”

Leliana moves from her sitting position on the couch to kneel upon the fluffy rug next to Lucille. She slides the photos around a bit and then points to a close-up of the drummer Lucille recognized. “That’s Cassandra, but her nickname for band publicity was ‘The Seeker’.”

“ _The Seeker_ …” Lucille echoes. “Oh my gosh that’s sick, I love nicknames!” She starts to forget herself and become excited; she really was into the whole nickname thing ever since Varric gave her one. “So you have one too, right? A _stage name_? Ohh it sounds so cool! Like a legit rockstar.”

“I _am_ a legit rockstar.” Leliana asserts, a smug grin plastering itself over her face. “And my stage name’s ‘The Nightingale’.”

The two women have a quick giggle at her slightly acerbic response, but Leliana seems to sober as she looks upon the photo-strewn coffee table.

“And that person, the one…” She falters with her words for a moment before hovering her hand over the table inch by inch to finally indicate the individual who takes center stage in the captures. “She is ‘Divine Justinia’, or Dorothea when she’s not performing. Although I think she was fonder of her nickname than her given one.”

Leliana delivered her last couple sentences so quietly that the weather outside just about swallowed them, but Lucille catches it with her keen hearing all the same. Pain laced itself through her words, that is for certain, but she promptly regains her typical cool air. Responding to Leliana’s changes in demeanour, Lucille holds her questions for the time being and merely takes in the third and final band member, Divine Justinia.

The ethereal presence that Divine Justinia exudes is harshened only by the dark rings of smokey makeup framing her eyes. Dissimilarly, the rest of her person appears pale and fleeting, from her cascading curls of white-blonde hair to her fragile limbs that seem all the more thin due to the billowing layers of clothing she wears. It almost looks like she stole bed-sheets from a clothesline and wrapped them around herself, but she somehow makes it incredibly fashionable. Lucille for an instant wonders how Justinia plays the pearlescent bass guitar she holds with such skinny fingers and long nails. Then as she admires some close-ups of her, she notices that only her right hand’s nails are long and manicured whilst her left’s are cut short so that her fingertips are able to press fast to the fretboard as she sings.

“It would be marvellous to hear you all play.” Lucille murmurs absentmindedly.

“Impossible.” Comes a curt reply from Leliana. “We’re not a band anymore.”

“Huh…? Oh.” It occurs to Lucille that her previous thought was voiced aloud. “I didn’t mean… I assumed that you might not be since I hadn’t heard about it ‘til now.”

She shuts her mouth before it has the chance to betray her and babble. Yet a question lingers in her mind, and she thinks that now might be the only chance to ask it.

“Why are you not a band anymore?”

Her response is but a sigh: “Because Justinia died.”

Leliana discloses this information without raising her head to make eye contact. The curve of her back and neck as she kneels causes her hair to fall across her face, obscuring any expression. It is as though the solemn fact she shared clings to her like a heavy shroud.

So this is what troubled her. Lucille takes in the situation, the reality of death and its effects on the living. She knew individuals that died, of course; a neighbour, a friend’s grandparent, an elderly shopkeeper. Yet they were not close to her. She does not know the anguish of death claiming a good friend or a close family member. Lucille at once gains the understanding that she is likely very naïve for previously thinking that she might be able to help Leliana. Is it possible to help with something that she lacks experience in? Maybe, maybe not. Regardless…

An ‘I’m sorry’ fights its way to the tip of Lucille’s tongue, but she bites it back, instead saying, “I realize that we have a professional relationship because of work, but I want to let you know that I’m here for you as a friend too.”

Leliana tilts her head up and gives Lucille a sideways glance through her red locks of hair. She offers a whisper of a smile.

“Thank you, Lucille.” She says in earnest. “And I want to let _you_ know that I definitely see you as a friend.”

After a beat of silence—as silent as it can be with the rain—Leliana adds, “And get real, no one’s professional at work here.”

Lucille snorts ungracefully through her nose in amusement as she thinks of The Iron Bull and Cole. They really are all more like buddies than just co-workers. It is absolutely something to be thankful for.

“I’m glad that’s the case, otherwise I’d stick out like a sore thumb I’m afraid,” Lucille comments as she slips the photographs around again with her fingertips. She unearths one of Leliana singing her heart out, and carefully picks it up. It must have been taken closer to the end of the concert, judging by the sweat upon her skin and the way that her hair and makeup seem to have received a beating. However, even with smeared cosmetics and sweaty hair stuck to her flushed face, Leliana remains vivacious.

“You look talented.” Lucille compliments, still staring at the photo. “And I bet your singing voice is amazing.”

Leliana examines it.

“I look like a cat that’s getting its tail stepped on.” She replies plainly.

“Come on!”

“And my singing? It’s been awhile but I suppose I can give you a little show.”

This unexpected turn of events causes an expectant edge to slink into Lucille’s nerves. She pinches at the shaggy threads that make up the rug she kneels upon as a way to give her increasing anticipation a physical outlet.

Leliana gets up and goes the short distance to the south end of the small home. Once there, she reaches up and grasps the thin pull-cord that attaches to a rectangular trapdoor in the ceiling. The attic. With one good yank, the trapdoor eases open, and Leliana unfolds the ladder that was hidden on the opposite side of it, thus providing a path to the floor above. She begins to climb the ladder’s narrow, wooden rungs, then pauses, turns, and beckons Lucille with one of her hands.

“Well come along!”

Lucille scampers over, leaving the photo-cluttered coffee table behind. As she ascends rung by rung into the darkness of the attic, a memory strikes her.

_‘…seeking a reason to climb the ladder.’_

The words of Cole flit through her head as she climbs what she is sure must be the very ladder he referenced all those days ago.

The attic is dark, as attics are wont to be, and more than a few cobwebs and dust-bunnies lurk in its recesses. Leliana goes about opening the stiff slatted blinds of the small windows in each wall, but with the stormy weather, the place is not properly lit up until she turns on the tiffany-style torchiere lamp in one of the room’s corners.

Where the lamplight hits the surfaces of the few cardboard boxes and old furniture at a particular angle, a film of pale dust becomes visible. Lucille squints at some of the boxes that are stacked against one wall at her side. They have labels composed of painters’ tape and marker. She tries to unscramble the script upon them, sounding it out in her head.

“Those are mostly Justinia’s things,” Leliana supplies, and when Lucille continues to ponder the boxes, she adds, “Justinia was estranged from her family. That’s why I inherited them.”

“Oh, I see.” Lucille answers in place of a question. She does not wish to behave invasively, especially since she kind of already has. Instead she turns her focus to Leliana’s activities.

At the moment, Leliana leans over a black cube and swipes one finger across its surface to ascertain the dusty coating upon it. The black cube has a small, leather handle on top like a briefcase. Yet unlike a briefcase, it also has several silver-coloured knobs on it. After a few seconds, Lucille recognizes the thing as the guitar amplifier that was on stage in the photos.

“Ugh.” Leliana grumbles. “I don’t want to deal with this filth. Guess I could go acoustic…”

The human woman abandons the dirty amp to clean another day, and goes to grab a sticker-covered guitar case set off to the side. She sits as she places it on the floor and undoes its metal fastenings, and then she opens it like a clamshell.

The acoustic guitar that she lifts out possesses a deep red polish thats gradient fades to black around the edges. The body of the guitar is shaped like a pear, lacking the sharp cutaways of the electric one from the photos. Leliana gives the six strings an experimental strum, and Lucille sits on the floor as well to observe as she twists the pegs at the head of the fretboard to tune it.

When finished, Leliana shifts so she sits crosslegged across from Lucille, the guitar resting in her lap.

“So, Lavellan,” she grins, seeming utterly within her element. “What sort of song would you like to hear?”

“A fun one!” Lucille answers happily.

“Hmmm. Alright, I have something for you.” She flexes the fingers of her left hand over the frets. “I call this one ‘The Daughters of Song’.”

The song starts modestly, with loosely played chords and even strums of the guitar strings. Leliana’s singing voice is soft and not unalike her normal speaking volume, occasionally even falling down to a whisper that weaves between the instrumental notes. Steadily though, her voice rises, and the once glassy vocals turns devilish, accompanied by a now coarser melody from the guitar.

Somehow this song imbues Lucille with a spontaneous sense of accomplishment, as though she achieved something by merely hearing it. Perhaps she has in a way.

When the composition arrives at an apogee it strived the whole time to reach, goosebumps creep across Lucille’s skin. She can scarcely describe it. She never wants the song to end. Yet, unavoidably so, it culminates and dissolves, the final notes vibrating the air of the attic and diminishing until they are inaudible.

_______

Not long after the impromptu performance, the two women take the squeaky stairway back down to the bakery one after the other, Leliana in front, and Lucille following behind her. The song still echoes in Lucille’s head and sends tingles over her skin. Everything was better than she imagined.

Abruptly, Leliana pauses at the landing, causing Lucille to stop on the final step, her toes teetering over the edge of it.

Leliana speaks in a breathy rush without turning around. “I lied to you, you know? About not wanting concern.” She refers to what she said the day that Lucille delivered the manila envelope.

“Wait, no, that’s a lie too.” Leliana hastily contradicts her own claim, and curls and uncurls her hand over the stairs’ handrail somewhat nervously. “It’s both, it’s… In regard to Justinia’s death, I want the care, the condolences, but the moment I actually get them I feel pitied and bitter. So I don’t want them, but I do, and… Does that make sense?”

Leliana’s moment of vulnerability awes Lucille. She never witnessed her like this, open and raw, words not well composed. _And what can I say to that?_ She knows that she herself does not pity Leliana. In fact, her kindness, talent, and honesty move her. Yet this is how Leliana feels, and Lucille fears that to say something like, ‘but I don’t pity you’ would only push her away.

“Y’know,” Lucille begins a response. “So often people are told that they always gotta have thoughts and opinions that are straightforward and easy to process. But the mind is more complicated than that. A person can carry so much apparent dissonance in their head. I wouldn’t fault anybody for, say, both agreeing and disagreeing, or both wanting and not wanting… I guess that doesn’t make sense in the way that most are taught sense is made, but it’s okay. It doesn’t have to.”

She stops before her remarks run on into rambles, and regards Leliana’s back expectantly.

Lucille ponders whether she said the best thing or not. Is it more important to say the Right things, or the things that naturally come to one’s mind? It depends upon the situation, she guesses, and hopes that she chose her words well for this one.

Leliana halfway turns around, and despite the rain outside and the shadows in the stairway, her countenance beams. Her cheeks even seem to have a glimmer as she smiles.

“It feels good to have all this off my chest.” She admits. “Thank you for listening and for understanding.”

Lucille says nothing, just reaches out to lay a comforting hand on Leliana’s shoulder, like she did for her.

_______

The pouring rain strikes the earth with such force that the sound of it more closely recalls an applause than the white-noise of a television. Solas thinks that the only applause he deserves would be a sarcastic one, if there ever was such a thing.

Water dribbles under Solas’ shirt collar and down his spine, causing his clothing to sag and cling to his skin. He trembles involuntarily, and resists the urge to wring the fabric out, or worse, shake like a dog. It would doubtless prove useless to attempt to dry oneself off whilst taking a walk in the middle of a downpour like he is now, as well as look silly.

Venturing outside in this weather was a bit of a daft thing to do, but for Solas it was more appealing an option than remaining at his house. He could not stomach staying there staring at the tiny, blinking red light on his answering-machine, which signals the presence of a recorded message that he has no intention of listening to nor returning.

Solas nearly never answers his phone. He hates to not know who it is on the other end of the line before picking it up. So he prefers to allow the damn thing to ring and ring until the caller is diverted to the answering-machine. Then, when he hears their voice play through as they begin to leave a message, he decides whether to answer or not based upon exactly who it is, what they want, and how much he feels like dealing with it. Most of the time, Solas does not pick up even after these circumstances fall into place. However, very rarely, and maybe not even ever before, does a phone message alarm him so deeply that he bolts from his own home during a thunderstorm. Yet that is exactly what happened today.

It only took a few sentences played through the answering-machine to trigger his getaway.

_“Hello, um, I realize that it’s probably shocking to hear from me. I bet you’re wondering how I found this number. It’s kind of sort of a long story, but, well… Actually, I must speak with you. This isn’t something I think you’d want left on some machine, and I… I really don’t want anything to happen to you-”_

Solas did not catch the rest for the slamming of his front door, with him on the other side of it.

At present, he muscles in through the folding door of a phone-booth on the street side, taking refuge within its glass and metal confines. He shoves his hands into his wet trouser pockets, fishes out some spare coins, and drops them into the payment-slot before mashing a telephone number onto the keypad. He holds the plastic phone near to one of his ears, and worries its flexible steel cable between the fingers of his free hand.

_One ring, two rings…_

Solas wonders if he misdialled the number.

_Three rings…_

That would be really embarrassing.

_Four rings…_

What would be even more embarrassing is if a roommate picks up or something. He can envisage the awkward announcement: _Oh hey there’s some weirdo on the phone for you_.

_Five rings…_

Perhaps it is better if no one answers at all.

“Hello?”

“Dorian,” Solas greets, hoping that the slight fluctuation in his voice does not carry.

“Solas! Good to hear from you!” Dorian responds enthusiastically, as though they call one another all the time. “Except I can barely hear you,” he continues. “Is that…static?”

“No. I am calling from a booth, and it is raining. As I’m sure you are aware.”

“What? Why are y—”

“I have changed my mind.” Solas interrupts without preamble.

“You’ve…?” The man trails off, probably trying to deduce to what exactly he refers to.

Solas spares him the effort and quickly clarifies. “I wish to go to the arcade with you all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of this seemed sloppily written to me, but I think it came together alright overall.
> 
> The name of the song Leliana performs is also the title of an amusing codex entry about a cult, the content of which seemed like it might be good material for a fun rock song or something.
> 
> Also, not gonna lie, I write more of an Origins Leliana than an Inquisition Leliana. Hope that’s cool ~
> 
> (P. S. And this is a shameless plug, but if any of yall happen to like either the videogame Bloodborne, or the anime Inuyasha, stay tuned because I have some single-chapter stories in the works for both of those fandoms.)


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